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MENTAL 



PHILOSOPHY: 



INCLUDING THE 



INTELLECT, SENSIBILITIES, 
AND WILL. 




/ 



BY 



JOSEPH HAVEN, D.D., LL.D, 

LATE PROFESSOR OF SYSTEMATIC THEOLOGY IN THE THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY 

CHICAGO, ILL. ; AND LATE PROFESSOR OF INTELLECTUAL AND 

MORAL PHILOSOPHY IN AMHERST COLLEGE. 



IMPROVED 




CTROTYPED. 



SHELDON & COMPANY, 

NEW YORK AND CHICAGO, 






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VALUABLE SERIES OF 



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I St. 

MENTA L PHILOSOPHY. 

2d. 

MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 

3d. 

HISTORY OF ANCIENT AND MODERN 
PHILOSOPHY. 

Copyright^ 1857, by Gould dr» Lincoln. 



Copyright, 1883, h Sheldon (Sr» Co. 



Elcctrot>T)ctl by Smith ii McI>>i'oai., 82 Beekman St., New Vork. 



PUBLISHERS' NOTE 



MANY years since, the late Dr. Haven prepared this 
work on Mental Philosophy. As he states in his 
Preface, it was the out-growth of his class-room work. 

It soon became the most popular text-book on this 
subject, and it has retained that place up to the present 
time. 

Dr. Haven treats this most difficult subject in a very 
simple, yet thorough manner. His style is clear an4 per- 
spicuous. 

So great has been the demand for this book, that the 
stereotyped plates have been entirely worn out, in printing 
edition after edition. This is a thing which very rarely 
happens with books of this class. 

We have therefore had a new edition prepared, and 
electrotyped it entirely anew. We believe that in its new 
and attractive dress, it will have a sale even greater than 
before. 




'l^ J 'i^ ^i^ ^i^ 



IF any apology were necessary for adding 3^et another to 
the numerous works on Mental Philosophy which 
have recently appeared, the circumstances that led to the 
preparation of the present volume may, perhaps, constitute 
that apology. 

When called, several years since, to the chair of Mental 
and Moral Philosophy in Amherst College, the text-books 
then In use seemed to me not well adapted to the wants of 
College students. Nor was it easy to make a change for 
the better. Of the works in this department then gener- 
erally in use in our Colleges, some presumed on a more 
extensive acfc[uaintance with the science than most young 
men at this stage of education are likely to possess ; others, 
again, erring on the opposite extreme, were deficient in 
thorough and scientific treatment; while most, if not all, 
were, at the best, incomplete, presenting but a partial 
survey of the entire field. In none of them was the science 
of mind presented in its completeness and symmetry, in a 
manner at once simple, yet scientific; in none of them, 
moreover, was it brought down to Ww. j^rescnt time. 
Something more complete, more simple, more thorough, 
seemed desirable. 



^ 



PEE F A C E. V 

Every year of subsequent experience as a teacher has 
but confirmed this impression, and made the want of a 
book better adapted to the purposes of instruction in our 
American Colleges more deeply felt. The works on mental 
science, which have recently appeared in this country, 
while they are certainly a valuable contribution to the de- 
partment of philosophy, seem to meet this deficiency in 
part, but only in part. They traverse usually but a portion 
of the ground which Psychology legitimately occupies, con- 
fining their attention, for the most part, to the Intellectual 
Faculties, to the exclusion of the Sensibilities and the Will. 

Feeling deeply the want which has been spoken of, it 
seemed to me, early in my course, that something might 
be done toward remedying the deficiency, by preparing 
with care, and delivering to the classes, lectures upon tlie 
topics presented in the books, as they passed along. This 
course was adopted — a method devolving mucli labor upon 
the instructor, but rewarding him by the increased interest 
and more rapid progress of the pupils. Little by httle the 
present w^ork thus grew up, as the result of my studies, in 
connection with my classes, and of my experience in the 
daily routine of the recitation and lecture room. Gradu- 
ally the lectures, thus prepared, came to take the place 
more and more of a text-book, until there seemed to be no 
longer any reason why they should not be put into the 
hands of the student as such. 

It is much easier to decide what a work on mental 
science ought to be, than to produce such a work. It 
should be comprehensive and complete, treating of all that 
properly pertains to Psychology, giving to every part its 



VI- PREFACE. 

due proportion and development It should treat the 
various topics presented in a thorough and scientific man- 
ner. It should be conversant with the literature of the 
department, placing the student in possession, not only of 
*the true doctrines, but, to some extent also, of the history 
of those doctrines, showing him what has been held and 
taught by others upon the points in question. In style it 
should be clear, perspicuous, concise, yet not so barren of 
ornament as to be destitute of interest to the reader. 

At these qualities the writer has aimed in the present 
treatise ; with what success, others must determine. 

All science, in proportion as it is complete and true, 
becomes simple. In proportion as this result is attained, 
the labor bestowed upon it disappears from view, and the 
writer seems, perhaps, to others, to have said but a very 
plain and common thing. This is peculiarly the case with 
mental science. The difficulty of discussing with clearness 
and simplicity, and, at the same time, in a complete and 
thorough manner, the difficult problems of Psychology, 
will be understood only by those who make the attempt. 

J. H. 




■ INTRO DUCT I ON. 
CHAPTER I. 

PAGE 

ON THE NATURE AND IMPORTANCE OF MENTAL SCIENCE.. 15 

Section I.— Nature of the Science 15 

Section II, — Importance of Mental Science 20 

CHAPTER II. 

ANALYSIS AND CLASSIFICATION OF THE MENTAL POWERS.. 29 

Section I. — General Analysis . 29 

Section II. — Analysis of Intellectual Powers 31 

Section III —Historical Sketch. — Various Divisions of 

THE Mental Faculties 35 



DIVISION FIRST. 

THE INTELLECTUAL FACULTIES. 



PRELIMINARY TOPICS. 

CHAPTEE I. 
CONSCIOUSNESS 39 

CHAPTER II. 
ATTENTION 46 

CHAPTER III. 
CONCEPTION 53 



VIU CONTENTS. 

PART FIRST. 
THE PRESENTATIVE POWER. 

FAOE 

SENSE, OR PERCEPTION BY THE SENSES 59 

Section I. — General Observations 59 

Section II. — Analysis of the Perceptive Process 61 

Section III. — Analysis and Classification of the Quali- 
ties OF Bodies 65 

Section IV. — Organs of Sense. — Analysis of their Sev- 
eral Functions 68 

Section V. — Amount of Information derived from the 

Respective Senses. 72 

Section VI. — Credibility of our Sensations and Per- 
ceptions 81 

Section VII.— Historical Sketch 84 

I. — Of Different Divisions of the Quali- 
ties of Bodies 84 

II. — Of Different Theories of Perception. 87 



PART SECOND. 
THE REPRESENTATIVE POWER. 



CHAPTER I 
MEMORY 96 

Section I.— Mental Reproduction 96 

I. Nature 96 

II. Laws 101 

Section II. — Mental Recognition, as distinguished from 

Ment \l Reproduction 113 

I —(General Character. 113 

II. — What is implied in an Act of Memory. . . 118 

III.— Qualities of Memory 118 

IV.— Memory as rel.\ted to Intellectual 

Strength 121 

v.— CULTIV.VTION OF Mkmohy 125 

VI.— Effects of Disease on Memory 128 



CONTENTS. 



IX 



Section II. — Continued. p^ou 

VII. Influence os Memory on the Happiness 

OF Life Vol 

VIII. Historical Sketch, — Different Theo- 
ries OF Memory 133 

CHAPTER II. 

IMAGINATION..... 137 

Section I. — General Character of this Faculty 137 

Section II.— Eelation to other Faculties 138 

Section III. — Active and Passive Imagination 140 

Section IV.— Imagination a simple Faculty 142 

Section V. — Not merely the tower of Combination. . 144 

Section VI. — Limited to Sensible Objects 147 

Section VII.— Limited to New Results 148 

Section VIII.— A Voluntary Power 149 

Section IX. — Use and Abuse of Imagination 153 

Section X. — Culture of Imagination 154 

Section XI. — Historic Sketch. — Various Definitions 
AND Theories of Imagination by Differ- 
ent Writers 158 



PART THIRD. 
THE REFLECTIVE POWER 



CHAPTER I. 

THE SYNTHETIC PROCESS.— GENERALIZATION 165 

Section I. — Nature of the Synthetic Process 165 

Section II.— Province and Relation of Several Terms 

EMPLOYED TO DENOTE, IN PaRT, OR AS A 

Whole, this Power op the Mind 172 

Section III. — Historical Sketch, — The Realist and Nom- 
inalist Controversy 177 

CHAPTER II. 

THE ANALYTIC PROCESS.— REASONING 180 

Section I.— The Nature of the Process 181 

Section IL — Relation of Judgment and Reasoning 187 

1* 



X CONTENTS. 

FAflE 

Section III.— Different Kinds of Reasoning 189 

I. De>ION STRATI VE. 189 

II. Probable— (1.) From Testimony : (2.) From 

Experience ; (3.) From Analogy 192 

Section IV. — Use of Hypotheses and Theories in Reason- 
ing 199 

Section V.— Different Forms of Reasoning 203 

I. Analysis of the Proposition 203 

II. Analysis of the Syllogism 205 

III. Laws of Syllogism 207 

IV. Different Kinds op Syxlogism 209 

V. Different Forms op Syllogism 210 

VI. Laws of Thought on which the Syl- 
logism depends 213 

VII. Use and Value of the Syllogism 213 

VIII. Historical Sketch op the Science of 

Logic 219 



PART FOU RTH. 
INTUITIVE POWER. 



CHAPTER I. 

EXISTENCE AND NATURE OF THIS FACULTY 229 

CHAPTER II. 

TRUTHS AND CONCEPTIONS FURNISHED BY THIS FACULTY. 238 

Section I.— Primary Truths 238 

Section IL— Intuitive Conceptions 241 

I. Space 241 

II. Time 244 

III. Identity 249 

IV. Cause 257 

V. Idea of the Beautiful and the Right.. 262 

CHAPTER III. 

THE CONCEPTION AND COGNIZANCE OF THE BEAUTIFUL... 268 

Section I. — Conceitton of the Beautiful 263 

S»CTioN II.— Cognizance of the Beautiful 286 



CONTENTS. XI 

OHAPTEK IV. 

PAGE 

IDEA AND COGNIZANCE OF THE RIGHT 303 

Section I.— Idea of Right.— Whence comes the Idea... 303 
Section II.— Cognizance of the Right.~1. Nature of Con- 
science; 2. Authority of Conscience 314 



SUPPLEMENTARY TOPICS. 

OHAPTEE I. 

INTELLIGENCE IN MAN AS DISTINGUISHED FROM INTELLI- 
GENCE IN THE BRUTE 329 

CHAPTEE II. 

MIND AS AFFECTED BY CERTAIN STATES OF THE BRAIN AND 

NERVOUS SYSTEM 342 

Section I.— Sleep 343 

Section II. — Dreams 351 

Section III. — Somnambulism 360 

Section IV. — Insanity 368 



DIVISION SECOND 
TH E SENS! BILITIES. 



PRELIMINARY TOPICS 

CHAPTER I. 

NATURE. DIFFICULTY, AND IMPORTANCE OF THIS DEPART- 
MENT OF THE SCIENCE 377 

CHAPTER II. 

ANALYSIS AND CLASSIFICATION OF THE SENSIBILITIES 382 



Xil CONTENTS. 



PART FIRST. 
SIMPLE EMOTIONS. 



CHAPTER I. 

PAGE 

INSTINCTIVE EMOTIONS 395 

Section L— Of that general State of Mind known as 
Cheerfulness, and its Opposite, Melan- 
choly 396 

Section II.— Sorrow at Loss of Friends 399 

Section III.— Sympathy with the Happiness and Sorrow 

OF Others 402 

CHAPTER II. 

RATIONAL EMOTIONS 409 

Section I.— Emotions of Joy or Sadness, arising from 
THE Contemplation of our own Excel 

LENCE, or the REVERSE 409 

Section II. — Enjoyment of the Ludicrous 413 

Section III.— Enjoyment of the New and Wonderful . 424 
Section IV. — Enjoyment of the Beautiful, and the Sub- 
lime 437 

Section V.— Satisfaction in View of Right Conduct, and 

Remorse in View of Wrong 434 



PART SECOND. 
THE AFFECTIONS. 



CHAPTER I. 

BEN EVOLENT AFFECTIONS 441 

Section I. — Love of Kindred 442 

Section II. — Love of Fhiexds 447 

Section III— Love of Benefactors. 451 

Section IV,— Love of Home and Country ... 454 

CHAPTER II. 

MALEVOLENT AFFECTIONS 458 

Resentment, with its Modifications, Envy, Jealousy, 

Revenge 458-469 



CONTENTS. xiii 

PART THIRD. 
THE DESIRES. 



CHAPTER I. 

PAGE 

NATURE AND CLASSIFICATION OF DESIRES 473 

CHAPTER II. 

DESIRES ARISING FROM THE PHYSICAL CONSTITUTION.... 447 

CHAPTER III. 

DESIRES ARISING FROM THE CONSTITUTION OF THE MIND. 481 

Section T.— Desire of Happiness 481 

Section II. — Desire of Knowledge 487 

Section III. — Desire of Power 490 

Section IV. — Certain Modifications of the Desire of 
Power, as Desire of Superiority and De- 
sire OF Possession 493 

Section V. — Desire of Society 501 

Section VI.— Desire of Esteem 505 

CHAPTER IV. 
HOPE AND FEAR 510 



DIVISION THIRD 

TH E Wl LL. 



PRELIMINARY OBSERVATIONS. 

CHAPTER I. 

NATURE OF THE WILL 520 

Section I. — Elements involved in an Act of the Will.. . 521 

Section II.— Investigation of these Elements 523 

I. Motive * 523 



XIV CONTENTS. 

Section II. — Continued. page 

II. Choice 526 

HI. Executive Volition 530 

CHAPTER II. 

RELATION OF THE WILL TO OTHER FACULTIES 531 

CHAPTER III. 

FREEDOM OF THE WILL 638 

Section I.— Presumptions in Favor of Freedom 539 

Section II. — Direct Argument 544 

CHAPTER IV. 

CERTAIN QUESTIONS CONNECTED WITH THE PRECEDING.. 549 

Section I,— Contrary Choice 549 

Section II. — Power to do what we are not disposed to 

DO ool 

Section III —Influence of Motives 554 

I. Is THE Wilt, always as the greatest ap- 

parent Good 554 

II. Is TiiK Will determined by the strong- 
est Motive 555 

III. Ark Motives the Cause and Volitions the 

Effect 556 

CHAPTER V. 

THE DOCTRINE OF THE WILL VIEWED IN CONNECTION 

WITH CERTAIN TRUTHS OF RELIGION 560 

Section I.— The Power which CJod exerts over the Hu- 

MAN Mind and Will 561 

Sfxttion II. — Man's Power over Himself 566 

CHAPTER VI. 

STRENGTH OF WILL 509 

CHAl^TER VTT. 

HISTORICAL SKETCH. — OUTLINE OF THE CONTROVERSY 

RESPECTING FREEDOM OF THE WILL 578 






CHAPTEH U 

ON THE NATURE AND IMPORTANCE OF MENTAL SCIENCE. 



§ I -NATURE OF THE SCIENCE. 

Mental Philosophy, what. — What is Mental Philosophy, 
as (listino^uished from other branches of science ? 

Philosophy, in the wide sense usually given it, denotes 
the investigation and explanation of the causes of things ; 
it seeks to discover, and scientifically to state, the general 
laws both of matter and mind ; its object is to ascertain 
facts, and their relation to each other. Mental Philosophy 
has for its object to ascertain the facts and laws of mental 
operation. 

Metaphysics, what. — Of the two grand departments of 
human knowledge — the science of matter and the science 
of mind — the former, comprising w^hatever relates ^ mate- 
rial phenomena, the science of nature, is known under the 
general name of Physics ; the latter, the science of mind, 
is often designated by the corresponding term, neither very 
correct nor very fortunate, Metaphysics. This term is often 
used to include whatever does not properly fall under the 
class of Physics. In its strict sense, it does not include so 
much, but denotes properly the scieiiije of abstract truth ; 
the science of being, in itself considered — apart from its 



16 INTRODUCTION. 

particular accidents and properties — tliat which we now call 
Ontology. The term is commonly ascribed to Aristotle, 
but incorrectly. It originated with his followers. Several 
treatises of his relating to natural science baving been 
collected and published, under the title ra (pvatKa, other 
treatises on philosopbical subjects were afterward arranged 
under the title ra neTa(l)voiKa, indicating their relation to 
the former, as proper to be read after the perusal of those. 
Hence the term came into use in the general sense, already 
spoken of, to denote whatever is not included under phys- 
ics, although crriginally employed with a much more limited 
meaning. 

Mental Philosophy not properly Metaphysics. — Neither 
in its wider nor in its stricter sense does this term prop- 
erly designate the science of mind. Mental Philosophy 
neither embraces every thing not included under physics, 
nor is it the science of abstract being. As one of the intel- 
lectual, in distinction from the physical sciences, it holds a 
place along with Logic — the science of the laws of human 
thought and reasoning ; Ethics — the science of morals ; 
Politics— the science of human organization and govern- 
ment; to which should be added Ontolog}^ — the science of 
pure being; which are all properly embraced under the 
term Metaphysics in its wider and popular sense. To desig- 
nate the science of mind in distinction from these other 
sciences, some more definite term is required. The word 
PsycJiology is now coming into use as such a term. 

Men^l Philosophy a Natural Science.— The science of 
mind, indeed, deserves in (me as]Kct to be ranked among 
the natural sciences. It is a science resting on experience, 
observation, and induction — a science of facts, ])henomena, 
and laws wliich regulate the same. That which is specifically 
its object of investigntion— the human mind — is strictly a 
part, and most important part of nnfnre, unless we exclude 
man himself from the world to which he belongs, and of 
which he is lord. 



INTEODUCTION^. 17 

Possibility of such a Science. — The possibility of the 
science of the human mind has been denied by some ; but 
without good reason. If we can observe and classify the 
phenomena of nature, in her varied forms, animate and in- 
animate, and ascertain in this way the laws to which she is 
subject; if it is possible thus to construct a science of plants, 
of animals, of the elements that compose the substance of 
the earth, of the strata that lie arranged beneath its sur- 
face, of the forces and agencies that at any time, recent or 
remote, have been at work to produce the changes which 
have taken place upon and within our globe — nay, more, if 
leaving our own planet we may, by careful observation of 
the heavenly bodies, learn their places, movements, dis- 
tances, estimate their magnitude and density, measure their 
speed, and thus construct a science of the stars, surely the 
phenomena of our own minds, the data of our own con- 
sciousness, must be at least equally within our reach, and 
equally capable of observation, classification, and scientific 
statement. If we can observe the habits of animals and 
plants, we can observe also the habits of men, and the 
phenomena of human thought and passion. If the careful 
induction of general truths and principles from observed 
facts form the basis and methods of true science in the one 
case, so in the other. 

Science of Matter and of Mind analogous. — The science 
of matter, and the science of mind agree perfectly in this, 
that all we know of either is simply the phenomena which 
they exhibit. We know not matter as it is in itself, but only 
as it affects our senses. We perceive certain qualities or 
properties of it, and these we embody in our definition, 
and be3^ond these we say nothing, because we know nothing, 
Equally relative is our knowledge of mind. What it is in 
itself we know not, but only its phenomena as presented to 
our observation and consciousness. It thinks and feels, it 
perceives, remembers, reasons, it loves, hates, desires, de- 
termines: these exercises are matter of experience and 



18 ll^TRODUCTION. 

observation; they constitute our knowledge and our defini- 
tion of mind, and beyond we cannot go. 

Modes and Sources of Information the same in both. — 
Til is being the case, it is evident that both our sources of 
information, and our mode of investigation, must be essen- 
tially the same in the two departments of science. In either 
case our knowledge must be limited. to pbenomena merely, 
and these must be learned by observation and experience. 
A careful induction of particulars will place us in posses- 
sion of general principles, or laws, and these, correctly 
ascertained and stated, will constitute our science, whether 
of matter or mind. 

They differ in one Respect. — In one respect, indeed, our 
means of information with regard to the two branches of 
Lcience differ. While both matter and mind can be known 
only by the observation of the phenomena which they pre- 
sent, in mental science the field of such observation lies in 
great part within ourselves — the phenomena are those of 
our own present or former consciousness — the mind is at 
once both the observer and the object observed. This 
circumstance, which at first seems to present a difficulty, 
is in reality a great advantage which this science possesses 
over all others. 

Apparent Difficulty. — The difficulty which it seems to 
present is this: How can the eye perceive itself? How 
can the mind, as employed, for example, in remembering, 
or judging, or willing, inspect its own operations, since the 
moment its attention is turned to itself it is no longer 
engaged in that operation which it seeks to inspect — is no 
longer remembering, or judging, or willing, but is employed 
only in self-observation ? We admit that the mind, in the 
very instant of its exercising any given faculty, cannot make 
itself, as thus engaged, the object of attention. But the 
operations of the mind, as given in consciousness, at any 
moment, may be retained or re])laced by memory the next 
moment, and as thus replaced and attested, may stand 



IKTKODUCTION. 19 

before us the proper objects of our investigation, so long 
as we please. This puts it in the power of the mind to 
observe and to know itself. 

Real Advantage. — The advantage accruing from the cir- 
cumstance that the phenomena to be observed are those of 
our own present or former consciousness, is this : that those 
phenomena are fully within our reach, and also are capable 
of being known with greater certainty. In physical science 
the facts may be scattered over the globe, and over centu- 
ries of time, not personally accessible to any one observer 
in their completeness, and yet that completeness of obser- 
vation may be essential to correct science. In psychology, 
the observer has within himself the essential elements of 
the science which he explores ; the data which he seeks, 
are the data of his own consciousness ; the science which 
he constructs is the science of himself. 

Comparative Value of this kind of Knowledge. — The 
knowledge thus given in conscious experience is more cor- 
rect and reliable than any other. It has this peculiarity 
that it cannot be disputed. I may be mistaken in regard 
to the properties of a piece of matter which I hold in my 
hand, and which seems to me to be square or round, of such 
or such a color, and of such or such figure, size, and density; 
but I cannot be mistaken as to the fact, that it seems to me 
to be of such color, figure, etc. The former are results of 
perception and judgment ; the latter is an immediate datum 
of consciousness, and cannot be called in question. To 
doubt our own consciousness is to call in question our very 
doubt, since the only evidence of our doubting is the con- 
sciousness that we doubt. As to the phenomena of the 
external world — the things that are passing without — I 
may be mistaken ; as to what is passing in my own mind — 
the thoughts, feelings, volitions of my own conscious self — 
there is no room for doubt or mistake. 

Not limited to Consciousness. — I do not mean, by what 
has been said, to imply that in our own observation of 



20 INTRODUCTION. 

mental phenomena wc are limited to tlie experience of our 
own minds, but only that this is the principal source of our 
information. The mental operations of others, so far as we 
have access to their minds, are also legitimate data. These 
we may observe for ourselves in the daily intercourse of life, 
may notice how, under given circumstances, men will think, 
feel, and act, and the knowledge thus acquired will consti- 
tute a valuable addition to our self-knowledge. We may, 
receive also, in this science, as in any other, the testimony 
of others as to their own mental states and operations. In 
so far as psychology relies upon these sources, it stands on 
a footing with other sciences. 

§ II.-IMPORTANCE OF MENTAL SCIENCE. 

Comparative Neglect. — That the science of the mind has 
not hitherto held that high place in the public regard and 
estimation, at least in our own country, to which it is justly 
entitled, as compared with other branches of knowledge, 
can hardly be denied. The cause of this comparative neg- 
lect is to be found partly in the nature of the science itself, 
partly in the exclusively practical tendencies of the age. 

The first Cause considered. —The nature of the science is 
such that its benefits are not immediately apparent. The 
dullest mind can perceive some use in chemistry, or botany, 
or natural philosophy. They are of service in the analysis 
of soils, the rotation of crops, the comprehension of the laws 
of mechanical and chemical forces. But mental science 
has no such application, no such practical results patent and 
obvious to the careless eye. Its dwelling-place and sphere 
of action lie removed somewhat from the observaHons of^ 
men. It has no splendid cabinuis or museums to throw 
open to the gaze of the multitude. It cannot arrange in 
magnificent collection all the varieties of mental action, all 
the complications of thought and feeling a.s yet observed, 
nor illustrate by curious instruments, and nice experiments, 



INTRODUCTIOK. 21 

the wonderful laws of associatiou, the subtle changes and 
swift flashes of wit and fancy, and quick strong emotion, the 
impulses of desire, the curious play of volitioit, the unex- 
plained mystery of thought, the lights and shadows that 
come and go upon the field of consciousness. For these 
curious and wonderful phenomena of the inner life there 
are no philosophic instruments or experiments, no charts 
or diagrams. Nor are there yet brilliant discoveries to be 
made, nor splendid rewards to be gained by the votaries of 
this science. "Four or five new metals," says Sydney 
Smith, "have been discovered within as many years, of the 
existence of which no human being could have had any 
suspicion ; but no man that I know of pretends to discover 
four or five new passions." 

The second Cause. — But the chief obstacle, as I suppose, 
to the more general cultivation of mental science is to be 
found in the exclusively practical tendencies of the age. We 
are a people given more to action than to thought, to enter- 
prise than to speculation. This is perhaps inseparable from 
the condition of a new state. An age of action is seldom 
an age of reflection. External life demands the energies of 
a new people. The elements are to be subdued, mountains 
levelled, graded, tunnelled, roads constructed, cities built, 
and many useful, necessary w^orks to be wrought with toil 
and cost, before that period comes of golden affluence, and 
leisure, and genial taste, and elegant culture, that can at 
once appreciate and reward the higher efforts of philosophic 
investigation. 

Relation to other Sciences. — The importance of mental 
science appears from its relation to other sciences. We find 
in nature a gradually ascending series. As we pass from 
the observation and study of the mineral to the forms of 
vegetable life, from the plant to the insect — and thence to 
the animal, and from the animal, in his various orders and 
classes, to man, the highest type of animated existence on 
the earth, we are conscious of a progression in the rank and 



22 INTRODUCTION. 

dignity of that which we con tempi;' te. But it is only when 
we turn our iittenlion from all tiioso to the intelligence that 
dwells within the man, and makes him master and lord of 
this lower world, that we stand upon the summit of ele- 
vation and overlook the wide held of previous inquiry. 
Toward this all other sciences lead, as paths along the 
mountain side, starting from different points, /ind running 
in different directions, converge toward a common terminus 
at the summit. As the mineral, the plant, the insect, the 
animal, in all their curious and wonderful organizations, are 
necessarily inferior to man, so is the science of them, how- 
ever imi)ortant and useful, subordinate to the science of 
man himself ; and as the human body, curious and won- 
derful in its organism and its laws, is nevertheless inferior 
in dignity and worth to the sjoirit that dwells within, and is 
the true lord of this fair castle and this wide and beautiful 
domain, so js the science of the body, its mechanism, its 
chemistry, its anatomy, its laws, inferior to the science of 
the mind, the divinity within. 

Other Sciences Creations of the Mind. — Many of the 
sciences justly regarded as the most noble, are themselves 
the creations of the mind. Such, for example, is the science 
of number and quantity —a science leading to the most sub- 
lime results, as in the calculations of the astronomer, yet a 
pure product of the human intellect. Indeed, what is all 
science but the work of mind ? The creations of ai*t are 
wonderful, but the mind that can conceive and execute 
those creations is still more to be admired. Language is 
wonderful, but chiefly as a production and expression of 
mind. The richness, the affluence, the eloquence, the 
exactness, the beauty, for example, of the Greek tongue, 
of what are these the qualities, and where did tliey dwell — 
in the Greek language, or in the Greek mind ? Which is 
really the more noble and wonderful then, the language 
itself, or the mind that called into being such a lan- 
guage, and employed it as an instrument of expression ; 



INTRODUCTION. " 23 

and of whicli is the science most noble and worthy of 
regard ? 

We admire the genius of a Kepler and a Copernicus, we 
sympathize with their enthusiasm as they observe the move- 
ments and develop the laws of the heavenly bodies ; we 
look througli the telescope, not without ti feeling of awe, as 
it seems to lift us up, and bear us away into the unknown 
and the infinite, revealing to us what it would almost seem 
had never been intended for the human eye to see ; but one 
thing is even more wonderful than the telescope— that is 
the mind that contrived it. One thing is more awe-inspiring 
than the stars, and that is the mind that discovers their 
hidden laws, and unlocks their complicated movements ; 
and when we would observe the most curious and wonder- 
ful thing of all, we must leave the tubes and the tables, the 
calculations and the diagrams with which the man works, 
and study the man himself, the workman. 

Relation of this Science to the practical Arts and Sci- 
ences. — But aside from the view now presented, the con- 
nection of mental science with other and practical arts and 
sciences is much more intimate than is usually supposed. 
Take for example the very noblest of all sciences — theology; 
we find it, in an important sense, based upon and receiving 
its shape and character from the views which we entertain, 
and the philosophy which we adopt of the human mind. 
Our philosophy underlies our theology, even as the solid 
strata that lie unseen beneath the surface give shape and 
contour and direction to the lofty mountain range. 

Psychology as related to Theology. — Not to speak of the 
very idea which we form of the divine Being, borrowed as 
it must be, in a sense, from our previous conception of the 
human mind, and our own spiritual existence, not to speak 
of the arguments by which we seek to establish the existence 
of the divine Being, involving as they do some of the nicest 
and most important of the laws of human thought, what 
problems, we may ask, go deeper into the groundwork of 



24 I Js^ T R O 1) U C T I O X . 

any theological system than those pertaining to human 
ability, and the freedom of the will — the government of 
the affections and desires — the power of a man over him- 
^ self, to be other and better than he is, and to do what God 
requires. But these are questions purely psychological. 
You cannot stir a step in the application of theology to 
practical life, till you have settled in some way these 
questions, and that view, whatever it be, crude or profound, 
intelligible or absurd, is, for the time, your science, your 
philosophy of the mind. 

Psychology as related to the healing Art. — Scarcely less 
intimate is the connection of psychology with the science of 
life. The physician finds in the practice of his profession, 
that in order to success, the laws of the human mind must 
constitute an important part of his study — how to avoid, 
and how to touch, the secret springs of human action. A 
word rightly spoken is often better than a medicine. In 
order to comprehend the nature of disease he must under- 
stand the effect on the bodily organization of the due, and 
also of the undue, exertion of each of the mental faculties; 
in line, the whole relation of the mind to the bodily func- 
tions, and its influence over them — a field of inquiry as yet 
but imperfectly understood, if indeed adequately appre- 
ciated by the medical profession. 

As related to Oratory. — To the public speaker, whether 
at the bar, in the public assembly, in the halls of legislation, 
or in the pulpit, it need hardly be said that a knowledge of 
this science, and the ability to make practical use of it, is 
indispensable. Success in oratory depends, doubtless, in a 
measure, upon other things ; but he who best understands 
the laws and operations of the human mind, how to touch 
the sensibilities, how to awaken the passions, how to excite 
the fears and the hopes, how to rouse tlie resentment of his 
hearers, how to soothe the troubled spirits, and allay the 
excitement of feeling, and disarm ]>rejudice, and call into 
play the sober reason and calm judgment of man, will 



INTEODUOTIOIT. 25 

best be able to accomplish bis purpose. He will be able to 
turn to bis own account the circumstances of tbe occasion, 
and like a skilful organist, touch with ease, yet with preci- 
sion and effect, what key he will. No man can do this 
who does not well understand the instrument. 

As related to the Art of Education. — Especially is this 
science of use to the teacher in the knowledge which it gives 
him of the mind of his pupil, and the skill in dealing with 
that mind. The mind of the pupil is to him the instru- 
ment on which he is required to play — a curious instrument 
of many and strange keys and stops — capable of being 
touched to wonderful harmony, and to fearful discord; — and 
to handle this instrument well is no ordinary acquirement. 
What shall we say of the man who knows nothing of the 
instrument, but only the music to be performed, nothing of 
the mind to be taught, but only the knowledge to be com- 
municated ? To know the mind that is to bo taught, how to 
stimulate, how to control, how to encourage, how to restrain, 
how to guide and direct its every movement and impulse, 
is not this the very first and chief thing to be known ? 

Connection of this Science with our ov/n personal Inter- 
ests. — The importance of mental science is evident not only 
from its relation to other sciences, but from the relation it 
sustains to man and his higher interests. Some sciences 
interest us as abstractions — merely speculative systems of 
truth ; others as realities, but of such a nature, and so 
remote from the personal interests and wants of the race to 
which we belong, that they make little appeal to our sensi- 
bilities. Thus it is with mathematical and astronomical 
truth. The heavenly bodies, whose movements we observe, 
hold on their swift silent way, in the calmness of their own 
eternity, regardless of man and his destiny, even as they 
rolled ages ago, and as they will ages hence. What have 
we to do with them or they with us ? We watcl] them as 
they hold their course through the deep firmament, as 
children, standing on the sea-side, w^atch the distant snowy 
2 



"ZG INTRODUCTION. 

sail that glides silently along (lie horizon, afar off, beautiful, 
unknown. So sail those swift ships of the firmament, and 
only he who made them knows their history. 

Psychology in contrast with other Sciences in this respect. 
— But when we come to the study of ourselves, and the 
laws of our own intelligence, our inquiries assume a practical 
importance which attaches to no other departments of truth. 
It is no longer the sail dimly visible on the far horizon, but 
our own conscious being that is the object of thought. The 
question no longer is, Wlience comes that swift ship, and 
whither goes it, but, What am I, and whither going; what 
my history, and my destiny ? This mysterious soul which 
animates me, and is the presiding divinity over all my 
actions, what is it, with all its wondrous faculties — sense, 
imagination, reason, will — those powers of my being ? What 
is that change which passes upon mc, which men call sleep, 
and that more mysterious and fearful change that must soon 
pass upon me, and that men call death ? How is it that 
events of former years come back to mind, with all the 
freshness and reality of passing scenes ? What is that prin- 
ciple of my nature that ever assumes to itself the right of 
command, saying to all my inclinations and passions, thou 
shalt, and thou shalt not, and when I disobey that mandate, 
filling my whole soul with misery, my whole future exist- 
ence with remorse? And what and whence that word 
oiKjhty that has so much to do with me and my pursuits : 
ought what, and why ought, and to whom ? — Am I free, 
or am I subject to inevitable necessity ; if free, then how 
are all my actions controlled, and predetermined by a 
divine Providence ? If not free, then how am I respon- 
sible ? Who shall solve this problem ; who shall read me 
this strange inexplicable riddle of human life ? Such are 
the questions and themes which mental philosophy dis- 
cusses, and we i)erceive at a glance their intimate oo'inec- 
tion with the highest interests and personal wants of man 
as an individual. 



INTRODUCTION. 27 

Connection of this Science with mental Discipline. — The 

importance of mental science may be furtlier apparent in its 
effect on the culture and discipline of the mind. It is the 
peculiar effect of this science to sharpen and quicken the 
mental powers, to teach precision and exactness of thought 
and expression, to train the mind to habits of close atten- 
tion and concentrMion of thought, to lead it to inquire into 
the causes and relations of things ; in a word, to render it 
familiar with the great art of distinguishing things that 
differ. It would hardly be possible to name another branch 
of study that tends so directly to produce these results in 
the cultivation of the mind. 



CHAPTEB n. 

ANALYSIS AND CLASSIFICATION OF THE MENTAL POWERS. 

Importance of such a preliminary Investigation. — It is 
of the highest importance, as we approach a science like the 
one before us, to obtain, if possible, at the outset, a clear 
and comprehensive view of the field about to be explored. 
It is desirable that the traveller, before entering a new 
country, should learn something respecting its extent, its 
political and geographical divisions, its manners, its laws, its 
history. Even more necessary is it, in entering upon a new 
science, to know its boundaries and divisions, to obtain a 
clear idea, at the very commencement of our inquiries, of 
the number, nature, extent, and arrangement of the subjects 
we are about to investigate. Otherwise we shall be liable 
to confusion and error, shall not know where, at any mo- 
ment, in the wide field of investigation, we may chance to 
be, or what relation the topic of our immediate inquiry 
holds to the whole science before us ; as a ship on the 



28 INTRODUCTION. 

ocean, without observation and reckoning, loses her latitude 
and longitude. We shall be liable to confound those dis- 
tinctions which are of less, with those which are of more 
importance, and to mistake the relation which the several 
topics of inquiry bear to each other. Especially is this pre- 
vious survey and comprehension of the subject essential in 
a science like this, where so much depends on the clearness 
and accuracy with which we distinguish differences often 
minute, and on the definiteness witli which we mark off and 
lay out the several divisions of our work. A thorough 
analysis and classification of the various faculties of the 
mind is necessary, in the first place, before we enter upon 
the special investigation of any one of them. Such a 
classification must serve as our guide-book and chart in 
all further inquiries. 

Difficulty of such an Investigation. — The importance of 
such a preliminary investigation is scarcely greater than its 
difficulty. It would be easy, indeed, to mention, almost at 
random, a considerable number of mental operations, with 
whose names we are familiar; and a little thought would en- 
able us to enlarge the list almost indefinitely. But such a 
list, even though it miglit chance to be complete, would be 
neither an analysis nor a classification of these several pow- 
ers. It would neither teach us their relations to each other 
and to the whole, nor enable us to understand the precise 
nature and office of each faculty. We could not be sure 
that we had not included under a common name operations 
essentially different, or assigned distinct places and offices 
to powers essentially the same. Much depends, moreover, 
on the order in which we take up the several faculties. 

It is evident at a glance that to form a clear, correct, and 
comprehensive arrangement of the powers of the mind, is 
no slight undertaking. A complete understanding of the 
whole science of the mind is requisite. It is one of the last 
things which the student is ju'cpared to undertake, yet one 
of the first whicli lie requires to know. Unfortunately for 



INTRODUCTIOiq^. 29 

the science, perhaps no topic in the whole circle of intel- 
lectual investigation has been more generally neglected, 
by those who have undertaken to unfold the philosophy 
of the mind, than the one now under consideration. 



§I.-GENERAL ANALYSIS. 

A mental Faculty, what. — In making out any scheme 
of classification, the question at once arises, how are we to 
know what are, and what are not distinct faculties ? In 
order to this, we must first determine what constitutes a 
mental faculty. 

What, then, is a faculty of the mind ? I understand by 
this term simply the mind's power of acting, of doing 
something, of putting forth some energy, and performing 
some operation. The mind has as many distinct faculties, 
as it has distinct powers of action, distinct functions, dis- 
tinct modes and spheres of activity. As its capabilities of 
action and operation difier, so its faculties differ. 

The Mind not complex. — Now mental activity is, strictly 
speaking, one and indivisible. The mind is not a complex 
substance, composed of parts, but single and one. Its activ- 
ity may, however, be exercised in various ways, and upon 
widely different classes of objects ; and as these modes of 
action vary, we may assign them different names, and treat 
of them in distinction from each other. So distinguished 
and named, they present themselves to us as so many 
distinct powers or faculties of the mind. But when this is 
done, and we make out, for purposes of science, our com- 
plete list and classification of these powers, we are not to 
forget that it is, after all, one and the same indivisible 
spiritual principle that is putting forth its activity under 
these diverse forms, one and the same force exerting itself — 
whether as thinking, feeling, or acting — whether as remem- 
bering, imagining, judging, perceiving, reasoning, loving, 
fearing, hating, desiring, choosing. And while we may 



30 INTRODUCTIOK. 

designate these as so many faculties of the mind, we are not 
to conceive of them as so many constituent parts of a com- 
plex whole, which, taken together, compose this mysterious 
entity called the mind, as the different limbs and organs of 
the physical frame compose the structure called the body. 
Such is not the oature of the mind, nor of its faculties. 

The Question before us. — In incpiiring, then, what are 
tlic faculties of the mind, wo have simply to inquire what 
are the distinct modes of its activity, what states and oper- 
ations of the mind so far resemble each other as to admit of 
being classed together under the same general description 
and name. Our work, thus understood, becomes in reahty 
a very simple one. 

The more important Distinctions to be first ascertained. — 
AVhat, then, are the clearly distinct modes of mental activ- 
ity? And first let us endeavor to ascertain the wider and 
more important distinctions. We shall find that, innu- 
merable as the forms of mental activity may at first siglit 
ai)pear, they are all capable of being reduced to a few gen- 
eral and conii)rehensive classes. 

The first Form of mental Activity. — I sit at my table. 
Books are before me. I open a volume, and peruse its 
pages. My mind is occupied, its activity is awakened; the 
thoughts of the author are transferred to my mind, and 
engage my thoughts. Here, then, is one form of mental 
activity. This one thing I can do; this one power I have — 
the faculty of thought. 

The second Form. — But not this alone : I am presently 
conscious of something beside simple thought. The writer, 
whose pages I peruse, interests me, excites me ; I am 
amust'd ))y his wit, moved by his eloquence, affecti'd by his 
j)athos ; 1 become indignant at tlie scenes and characters 
which he portrays, or, on the contrary, they command my 
admiration. All this by turns passes over me, as the fitful 
shadows play u})on the waters, coming and going with the 
changing cloud. This is not pure thought. It is thought, 



INTEODUCTIOlSr. 31 

accompanied witli another and quite distinct element, that 
is, feeling. This power also I have ; — I can feel. 

A third Form. — And not this alone. The process does 
not end here. Thought and feeling lead to action. I 
resolve vrhat to do. I lay down my book, and go forth 
to perform some act prompted by the emotion awakened 
within me. This power also I have ; — the faculty of vol- 
untary action, or volition. 

These three Forms comprehensive. — Here, then, are 
three grand divisions or forms of mental activity — thought, 
feeling, volition. These powers we are constantly exerting. 
Every moment of my intelligent existence I am exercising 
one or another, or all of these faculties. And, what is 
more, of all the forms of mental activity, there is not one 
which does not fall under one or another of these three 
divisions — thought — feeling — volition. Every possible 
mental operation may be reduced to one of these three 
things. 

"We have, then, these grand departments or modes of 
mental activity, comprehensive of all others : Intellect, or 
the faculty of simple thought ; Sensibility, or the faculty 
of feeling: Will, or the faculty of voluntary action. 

Under these leading powers are comprehended subordi- 
nate modes of mental activity, known as faculties of the 
Intellect, or of the Sensibility, or of the Will. 

We have at present to do only with those of the Intellect. 



§11 -ANALYSIS OF INTELLECTUAL POWERS. 

Sense-perception. — Observing closely the intellectual oper- 
ations of the mind, we find a large class of them relating 
to objects within the sphere of sense, external objects, as 
perceived by the senses. The mind, through the medium 
of sense, takes direct cognizance of these objects. This 
class of operations we may call Sense-perception, and the 



32 I NTKODUCTION. 

faculty thus employed, in distinction from other leading 
divisions of the intellectual powers, we may call Sense, or 
the Prcscntalive faculty. Its distinctive office is to present 
to the mind, through the senses, objects external, sensible, 
as now and here present. 

The Representative Power. — But the mind not only 
receives impressions of external objects, as present, and 
acting on the organs of sense ; it has also the faculty of 
conceiving of them in their absence, and representing them 
to itself. This faculty, as distinguished from the receptive 
I>ower, or sense, we may call the Representative Power. 

Mental Reproduction, and mental Recognition as distin- 
guished. — This power operates in various forms. There 
may be the simple representation of the absent object, 
without reference to the act of former perception, as when 
I think of the Strasburg tower, without recalling any par- 
ticular instance of its perception. Or there may be such 
recalling of the former act and instance of joerception. The 
thought of the tower, as it presents itself to my mind, 
may stand connected definitely with the idea of the time, 
and place, and attending circumstances in which, on some 
occasion, I saw that object. It is then recognized as the 
object which was seen at such or such a time. The former 
is an instance of mental reproduction simply — the latter, 
of mental recogniiio7i. We have in common language but 
one name for the two — although the term more strictly 
belongs only to the latter — and that is, Memory. 

Representation of the Ideal in distinction from the 
Actual. — Again, unlike either of these, there may be a 
conception and representation of the object, not at all as it 
is in reality, and as it was perceived, but varied in essential 
particulars, to suit our own taste and fancy — a tower not 
of ordinary stone, but of some rare and costly marble — not 
of ordinary height, but reaching to the skies, etc., etc. In 
the former cases we conceived only of the actual, now of 
the ideal. This faculty is called Imagination. Both are 



INTRODUCTIQiq^. 33 

forms of the representative power, not presenting, but only 
representing objects. 

Conception of the Abstract. — The Discursive or Reflective 
Power. — In the cases thus far described we have conceived, 
of some sensible object, considered in and by itself, capable 
of being represented to thought. We may, however, con- 
ceive not of an object in itself considered, but of the proper- 
ties and relations of objects in the abstract. Thus we com- 
pare and class together those objects which we perceive to 
possess certain properties in common ; as books bound in 
cloth, or in leather, octavos, or duodecimos. In so doing 
Ave exercise the faculty of generalization, which involves 
comparison, and also what is usually termed abstraction. Or 
we may reverse the process, and instead of classing together 
objects possessing certain elements in common, we may 
analyze a complex idea, or a comprehensive term, in order 
to derive from it whatever is specifically included in it. 
Thus from the general proposition, " All men are mortal/' 
inasmuch as the term "all men" includes Socrates, I infer 
that Socrates is mortal. The process last named is called 
reasoning. 

'In either case, both in the synthetic and the analytic 
process now described, we are dealing not with the concrete 
but the abstract. The properties and relations of things, 
rather than things themselves, are the objects of our 
thoughts. Still they are the properties and relations 
primarily of sensible objects, and of these objects as con- 
ceived, and not as presented to sense. To distinguish this 
class of conceptions from those previously considered, and 
also from that presently to be noticed, we may designate 
this power of the mind as the Discursive or Reflective 
Power. Its results are notions of the understanding rather 
than impressions of sense, or ideas of reason. 

Conceptions not furnished by Sense. — The Intuitive 
Power. — We have considered thus far those intellectual 
operations which fall within three leading departments of 



34 INTRODUCTION. 

mental uclivity ; — the Prosentiitive, Representative, and 
Discursive Powers. These operations all have reference 
directly or indirectly to sensible objects. The first regards 
them as present _i the second represents them as absent; 
tlie third considers their properties and relations in the 
abstract. 

But the mind has also the faculty of forming ideas and 
conceptions not furnislied by the senses. It departs from 
tiie sphere of sense, and deals with the super-sei\s\h\Q, with 
those primary ideas and first principles presupposed in all 
knowledge of the sensible. Such are the ideas of time, 
space, cause, the right, the beautiful. These are suggested 
by the objects of sense, but not directly derived from nor 
given by those objects. They are ideas of reason, rather 
than notions of understanding. They are awakened in the 
mind on occasions of sensible perception, but not conveyed 
to the mind through the senses, as in perception, nor 
directly derived from the object as in the case of the 
representative and discursive powers. This faculty we 
may call the Originative or Intuitive Power, in distinction 
from those previously considered. 

Summary of leading Divisions. — We have then four 
grand divisions of intellectual operations, under which the 
several specific faculties arrange themselves; viz., the Pre- 
sentative, the Representative, the Discursive, and the 
Originative or Intuitive faculty. The first has to do with 
sensible objects, as present; the second has to do with 
the same class of objects as absent ; the third deals with 
their abstract properties and relations ; and the fourth has 
to do not with the sensible, in any form, but with the 
snper-sensible. 

I believe the faculties of the intellect, in pure thinking, 
may all be reduced to those forms now specified, under 
these four leading divisions. 



INTEODUCTION. 35 

Results of the preceding analysis in a tabular form : 

POWERS OF THE INTELLECT. 

I. PRESENTATIVE Perception. 

II. REPRESENTATIVE, J 1- ^f the Actual, . Memory. 

\ 3. Of the Ideal, . . Imagination. 

II REFLEPTIVF \^' ^y^^hetic, . . . Generalization. 

(2. Analytic, . . . Reasoning. 

IV. INTUITIVE Original Conception. 



§ III.-HISTORICAL SKETCH-VARIOUS DIVISIONS OF 
THE MENTAL FACULTIES. 

The earlier Division. — The general division of the pow- 
ers of the mindjfor a long time prevalent among the earlier 
modern philosophers, was into two chief departments, 
known under different names, but including under the one 
what we now term the intellect, under the other what Ave 
designate as the sensibilities and the will, which were not 
then, as now, distinguished from each other in the general 
division, but thrown into one department. Under the first 
of these departments, they included the thinking and rea- 
soning powers, the strictly intellectual part of our nature ; 
under the second, whatever brings -the mind into action — 
the impelling and controlling power or principle — the affec- 
tions, emotions, desires, volitions, etc. The names given 
to these two divisions varied with different writers, but the 
difference was chiefly in the name, the principle of division 
being the same. By some authors they were designated as 
the contemplative and the active powers, by others cognitive 
and motive. The latter was the nomenclature proposed by 
Hobbes. Others again adopted the terms understanding 
and will, by which to mark the two divisions ; Locke, Eeid, 
some of the French philosophers, and, in our own country, 
Edwards, followed this division. Stewart designates them. 



36 INTRODUCTION. 

the ODe class as the iiitellectual, and the other as the active 
and moral powers. Brown objects to this phraseology on 
the ground that the intellectual powei-s are no less active 
than the other. He divides the mental powers or states 
primarily into what he calls cxlcrnal and intenial affections 
of the mind, comprehending under the former all those 
mental states which are immediately preceded by and con- 
nected with the presence of some external object; under 
the latter, those states which are not thus immediately 
preceded. The latter class he divides into intellectual 
states and emotions, a division corresponding essentially to 
those of the authors previously mentioned, the emotions of 
Brown comprehending essentially the powers which others 
had termed motive, or active and moral. 

Prevalence of this Method. — This twofold division of the 
mental powers, under different names, as now stated, has 
been the one generally prevalent until a comparatively 
recent date. It may doubtless be traced, as Sir William 
Hamilton suggests, to a distinction made by Aristotle, into 
cog H Hive and appctenl powers. 

The more recent Method.— The threefold division of the 
mental faculties very early came into use among philosoph- 
ical and theological writers in this country, and is now very 
generally adopted by the more recent European writers of 
note, especially in France and Germany. According to 
this division the various affections and emotions constitute 
a department by themselves, distinct from the will or the 
voluntary principle. Tliere are many reasons for such a 
distinction ; they have been well stated by Professor Upham. 
Cousin adopts and defends the threefold division, and pre- 
viously still, Kant, in Germany, had distinguished the 
mental powers under the leading divisions of intelligence, 
sensibility, and desire. 



MENTAL PHILOSOPHY, 



<^)^- 



DIViSION FIRST 



THE INTELLECTUAL FACULTIES 



PRELIMINARY TOPICS. 



CHAPTEH U 

CONSCIOUSNESS. 



General Statement. — Before proceeding to investigate the 
several specific faculties of the intellect, as already classified, 
there are certain preliminary topics to be considered, certain 
mental phenomena, or mental states, involved more or less 
fully in all mental activity, and on that account hardly to 
be classed as specific faculties, yet requiring distinct con- 
sideration. Such are the mental states which we denomi- 
nate as consciousness and attention. 

Definitions. — Consciousness is defined by Webster as the 
knowledge of sensations and mental operations, or of what 
passes in our own minds ; by Wayland, as that condition 
of the mind in which it; is cognizant of its own operations ; 
by Cousin, as that function of the intelligence which gives 
us information of every thing which takes place in the 
interior of our minds ; by Dr. Henry, translator of Cousin, 
as the being aware of the phenomena of the mind — of that 
which is present to the mind ; by Professor Tappan, as the 
necessary knowledge which the mind has of its own opera- 
tions. These general definitions substantially agree. The 
mind is aware of its own operations, its sensations, percep- 
tions, emotions, choices, etc., and the state or act of being 
thus cognizant of its own phenomena we designate by the 
general term Consciousness, 



40 CONSCIOUSNESS. 

Reasons for regarding Consciousness as not a distinct 
Faculty. — Is this, however, ii distinct faculty of the mind ? 
The mind, it is said, is always cognizant of its own opera- 
lions: when it perceives, it is conscious of perceiving; when 
it ruiisons, it is conscious of reasoning; when it feels, it is 
conscious of feeling ; and not to be conscious; of any par- 
ticular mental act, is not to perform that act. To have a 
sensation, and to be conscious of that sensation, it is said, 
are not two things, but one and the same, the difference 
being only in name. A perception is indivisible, cannot be 
analyzed into a fact, and the consciousness of the fact, for 
the perception is an act of knowing, and docs not take place 
if it be not known to take place. This is the view taken 
by Sir William Hamilton, Professor Bowen, and others of 
high authority. It was maintained by Dr. Brown with 
much force as an objection to the doctrine of Reid, who 
had recognized consciousness as a distinct faculty. 

Reasons for the opposite View. — On the other hand, the 
claims of this form of mental activity to be regarded as a 
faculty of the mind, distinct from and coordinate with the 
other mental powers, are admitted and maintained by 
writers of authority, among whom are Dr. Wayland and 
President Mahan. They maintain that the office of con- 
sciousness being to give us knowledge of our own mental 
states, and this function being quite distinct from that of 
any other mental faculty, the capacity or power of perform- 
ing this function deserves to be regarded as itself a faculty 
of the mind. It is maintained also by Dr. Wayland that 
consciousness does not necessarily invariably accompany 
all mental action, but that there may be, and are, acts of 
which we are not at the time conscious. 

Instances in proof of this Position. — In support of this 
position he refers to certain cases as instances of unconscious 
perception ; as when, for exami)le, a clock strikes within a 
few feet of us, while we are busily engaged, and we do not 
notice it, or know that it has struck, yet if questioned 



COKSCIOUSITESS. 41 

afterward, are conscious of an impression that we have 
heard it ; as when also while reading aloud to another per- 
son, some thought arrests our attention, and yet by a sort 
of mechanical process, we continue the reading, our mind, 
meanwhile, wholly occupied with another subject, until 
presently we are startled to find that we have not the 
remotest conception of what we have just been reading ; 
yet we read every word correctly, and must, it would seem, 
have perceived every word and letter. He refers also to 
the case of the short-hand writer to the House of Lords 
in England, who, on a certain occasion, while engaged in 
taking the depositions of witnesses in an important case, 
after many hours of continued exertion and fatigue, fell, 
for a few moments, into a state of entire unconsciousness, 
yet kept on writing down, and that with perfect accuracy, 
the depositions of the witness. Of the last few lines, when 
he came to read them, he had no recollection whatever, 
yet they were written as legibly and accurately as the rest. 
From these and similar cases it is inferred that there 
may be mental activity of which we have at the time no 
consciousness. 

The Evidence examined. — With regard to the cases now 
cited, it seems to me that they do not fully establish the 
point in question. For in the first place, it may be doubted 
whether they really involve any mental activity — whether 
they are properly mental acts, and not merely mechanical 
or automatic. ' It is well known that many processes which 
ordinarily require more or less attention may, when they 
have become perfectly familiar, be carried on for a time 
almost without thought. The senses, so far as they are 
required to act at all, seem in such cases to act mechan- 
ically or automatically, somewhat as a wheel when once 
set in motion continues for a time to revolve by its own 
momentum, after the propelling force is withdrawn. The 
mental activity exerted in such cases, if there be any, is so 
very slight as to escape attention, and we are unconscious of 



42 CONSCIOUSNESS. 

it simply because there was little or nothing to be conscions 
of. We have an illustration of this in the act of walking, 
while busily engaged in conversation with a friend, or in 
our own meditations. We arc not conscious of any mental 
act preceding or directing each step and movement of the 
limbs, but having at the outset decided what direction to 
take, the mind gives itself to other matters, while the pro- 
cess of walking goes on by a sort of mechanical impulse, ' 
until presently something occurs to arrest our attention 
and direct it to the physical movement in which we are 
engaged. The muscular contractions tend to follow each 
other in a certain regular succession ; a certain law of 
association seems to govern their movements, as is seen in 
the rapid motions of the pianist, the flute player, the type 
distributor, and in many similar cases ; and so long as the 
regular succession, and accustomed order of movement, is 
undisturbed, the process goes on with little or no inter- 
ference of the intellectual principle. In such cases the act 
can hardly be said to involve mental activity. 

A further Question. — But aside from this, even admit- 
ting that the acts under consideration are such as to involve 
mental activity, what evidence is there, it may still be 
asked, that there was at the moment no consciousness of 
that activity ? That there was suhseq^tently no conscious- 
ness of it, does not make it certain that there was none at 
the time. The subsequent consciousness of an act is neither 
more nor less than memory, and is not i)roperly conscious- 
ness at all. Consciousness takes cognizance, properly 
speaking, only of the present, not of the past. The absence 
of subsequent consciousness is simply absence of memory, 
and this may be accounted for in other ways than by sup-» 
posing a total absence of consciousness in the first instance. 
Whatever mental activity was really exerted by the short- 
hand reporter in the case referred to, he was, doubtless, 
conscions of exerting at the time, but it may have been so 
slight, and the mind so little impressed by it, in the state 



COKSCIOUSlfESS. 43 

of physical weariness and prostration, that it was not 
remembered a moment afterward. We remember not 
everything that occurs, but only that to which we attend, 
and which makes some impression upon us. 

The true Explanation. — In the other cases referred to, 
the explanation now given is still more evidently the true 
one. What is cal],ed an absence of consciousness is simply 
an absence of attention at the time, and consequently of 
memory afterward. The person who is reading aloud, in 
the case supposed, is mentally occupied with something 
else than the sentiments of the author, is not attending, in 
a word, to what he is reading, and hence does not, a moment 
after, remember what it was that he read. So of the strik- 
ing of the clock. The sound fell upon the ear, the auditory 
nerve performed its office, the usual change, whatever it 
may be, was produced in the brain, but the process of hear- 
ing went no further ; either no mental activity was awak- 
ened by that sound, or, if any, but the slightest, for the 
mind was otherwise occupied, in a word, did not attend to 
the summons of the messenger that waited at the portal, 
and hence there was no subsequent remembrance of the 
message, or at most a vague impression that something of 
the kind was heard. 

On the whole, it does not appear from the cases cited, 
that mental activity is ever, at the moment of its exertion, 
unaccompanied with consciousness. 

Summary of the Argument. — I hesitate then to assign 
consciousness a place among the faculties of the mind, as 
distinct from and coordinate with them, for the following 
reasons : 

1. It seems to me to be involved in all mental acts. We 
cannot, as it has been already said, suppose an act of per- 
ception, for example, or of sensation, without the conscious- 
ness of that perception or sensation. Whatever the mind 
does, it knows that it does, and the knowing is involved in, 
and given along with the doing. Not to know that I see 



44 CONSCIOUSNESS. 

ji book, or hear a sound, is in reality not to see and not to 
hear it. Not to know that I have a sensation is not to have 
it. But what is involved in all mental action cannot be set 
down by itself as a specific mental act. This were much 
the same as to reckon the whole among the parts. 

2. Consciousness, while involved in, cannot be, either 
psychologically or chronologically, distinguished from the 
mental acts which it accompanies. The act and the con- 
sciousness of the act arc inseparable in time, and they are 
incapable of being distinguished as distinct states of mind. 
We cannot break up the sensation or perception into a fact, 
and the consciousness of that fact. Logically we may dis- 
tinguish them as different objects of thought and attention, 
but not psychologically as distinct acts of mind. 

3. Consciousness is not under the control of the will, and 
is not therefore a faculty of the mind. It is not a power 
of doing something, but an inseparable concomitant of all 
doing. What has been termed by some writers voluntary 
consciousness, or refiection, is simply attention directed to 
our own mental acts. 

Distinction of Consciousness and Self-Consciousness. — 
Others again distinguish between consciousness and self- 
consciousness; but all consciousness, properly so called, 
involves the idea of self or the subjective element. To 
know that I have a sensation, is virtually to know myself 
as having it. 

Cases of abnormal or suspended Consciousness. — In cer- 
tain disordered and abnormal states of the nervous organ- 
ism, the knowledge of what has transpired previously to 
that state seems to be lost ; and then again, on passing out 
of that condition into the normal one, all knowledge of 
what took place while in the abnormal state is wanting. 
Inatances are on record where i)ersons have alternated in 
this manner from one to the other condition, carrying on, 
as it were, by turns, two separate and independent lines of 
mental activity. An instance of this nature is related by 



conscious:n'ess. 45 

Dr. Wayland. It has been usual to speak of these as 
instances of disordered or suspended consciousness. Strictly 
speaking, however, it is not consciousness but meDiory 
that is in such cases disordered. It is not the knowledge 
of the present, but of the past, that is disturbed and defi- 
cient. While the abnormal state continues, the individual 
is conscious of what transpires in that state. When it 
ceases, the patient wakes as from a reverie or dream, and 
retains no recollection of any thing that took place during 
its continuance. It is the memory that fails, and not the 
consciousness. We are never conscious of the past. 

Objects of Consciousness. — 1. Consciousness deals ouly 
with reality. We are conscious only of that which is, not 
of that which may be. The poet is conscious indeed of his 
fiction, the builder of air-castles is conscious of his reverie, 
but the fiction and the reverie, regarded as mental acts, are 
realities, and it is only as mental acts that they are objects 
of consciousness. 

2. Not every thing real is an object of consciousness, 
but only that which is i)resent and in immediate relation 
to us. The destruction of Pompeii, and the existence of 
an Antarctic continent are realities, but not objects of my 
consciousness. 

3. Primarily and directly we are conscious of our own 
mental states and operations ; of whatever passes over the 
field of our mental vision, our thoughts, feelings, actions, 
physical sensations, moral sentiments and purposes : me- 
diately and indirectly we are conscious of whatever, through 
the medium of sense, comes into direct relation to us. For 
instance, when I put forth my hand and it strikes this table, 
I am conscious not only of the movement, and the effort to 
move, but of the sensation of resistance also, and indirectly 
I may be said to be conscious not of the resistance only, 
but of something — to wit, the table — as resisting. This 
something I know, as really as I know the sensation and 
the fact of resistance. To this immediate perception of the 



46 ATTENTION. 

external world in direct relation to our physical organism, 
Sir W. Hamilton would extend the sphere of consciousness. 
Usually, however, the terra has been employed in a more 
restricted sense — to denote the knowledge of what passes 
within, rather than of what lies without the mind itself. 



CHAPTEH n. 

ATTENTION. 

General Character of this Power. — It has not been usual 
to treat of Attention as one of the distinct faculties of the 
mind. It is doubtless a power which the mind possesses, 
but like the power of conception, or more generally the 
power of thought and mental apprehension, it is involved in 
and underlies the exercise of all the specific mental faculties. 
Xor is it, like consciousness, confined to a distinct depart- 
ment of knowledge, viz., the knowledge of our own mental 
states. It is subsidiary to the other mental powers, rather 
than a faculty of original and independent knowledge. It 
originates nothing — teaches nothing — puts us in posses- 
sion of no new truth — has no distinct field and province of 
its own. And yet without it other faculties would be of 
little avail. 

Definitions. — If it were necessary to define a term so 
well understood, we might describe it as the power which 
the mind has of directing its thoughts, purposely and volun- 
tarily, to some one object, to the exclusion of others. It is 
descril)ed by Dr. Wayland as a sort of voluntary conscious- 
ness, a condition of mind in which our conscit/usnese is 
excited and directed by an act of the will. He speaks 
also of an involuntary attention, a state of mind in which 
our thoughts, without effort or purpose of our own, arc 
engrossed by objects of an exciting nature. It may 1)0 
questioned, perhaps, whether this is ])ro])trlv allculion. 



ATTENTION. 47 

Only in so far as attention is a voluntary act is it properly a 
power of the mind, and only in so far does it differ from the 
simple activity of thought, or of consciousness. The latter 
is always involuntary, and in this it differs from attention. 

Instances in Illustration. — It can hardly be necessary to 
illustrate by example the nature of a faculty so constantly in 
exercise. Every one perceives, for instance, the difference 
between the careless perusal of an author — the eye passing 
listlessly over the pages, and the mind receiving little or 
no impression from its statements — and the reading of the 
same volume Avith fixed and careful attention, every word 
observed, every sentiment weighed, and the whole mental 
energy directed to the subject in hand. We pass, in the 
streets of a crowded and busy city, many persons whom we 
do not stop to observe, and of whose appearance Ave could 
afterward give no account whatever. Presently, some one 
in the crowd attracts our notice. "We observe his appear- 
ance, we watch his movements, we notice his peculiarities 
of dress, gait, manners, etc., and are able afterward to 
describe them with some degree of minuteness. In the 
former case we perceive, but do not attend. In the latter, 
we attend, in order to perceive. 

Sometimes the sole Occupation. — Attention seems to be 
at times the sole occupation of the mind for the moment, as 
Avhen Ave have heard some sound that attracts our notice, 
and are listening for its repetition. In this case the other, 
faculties are for the time held in suspense, and Ave are, as we 
say, all attention. The posture naturally assumed in such a 
case is that indicated by the etymology of the word, and 
may have suggested its use to designate this faculty, viz., 
attention — ad-tendo — a bending to, a stretching toward, the 
object of interest. 

Analysis of the Mental Process in Attention. — If we 
closely analyze the process of our minds in the exercise of 
this power, Ave shall find, I think, that it consists chiefly in 
this — the arresting and detaining the thoughts, excluding 



48 ATTENTION. 

thus the exercise of other forms of mental activity, in con- 
sequence of which the mind is left free to direct its whole 
energy to the one object in view. The process may be 
compared to the operation of the detent in machinery, 
whicli checks tiie wheels that are in rapid motion, and gives 
opportunity for any desired change; while it may be com^ 
pared, as regards the result of its action, to the hehn that 
directs the motion of the ship, now this way, now that, as 
the helmsman wills. 

Objects of Attention.— The objects of attention are of course 
as various as the objects of thought. Like consciousness, 
it may confine itself to our own mental states ; and, unlike 
consciousness, it may comprehend also the entire range of 
objective reality. In the former case it is more commonly 
designated by the term reflection, in the latter, observation. 

Importance of Habits of Attention. — Tlie importance of 
habits of attention, of the due exercise and development of 
this faculty of the mind, is too obvious to require special 
comment. The power of controlling one's own mental 
activity, of directing it at will into whatever channels the 
occasion may demand, of excluding for this purpose all other 
and irrelevant ideas, and concentrating the energies of the 
mind on the one object of thought before it, is a power of 
the highest value, an attainment worth any effort, and which, 
in the different degi*ees in which it is possessed, goes far to 
make the difference between one mind and another in the 
realm of thought and intellectual greatness. ] While the 
attention is divided and the mind distracted among a 
variety of objects, it can apprehend nothing clearly and 
definitely ; the rays are not brought to a focus, and the 
mental eye, instead of a clear and well-defined i.nage, per- 
ceives nothing but a shadowy and confused outline. The 
mind while in this state acts to little purpose. It is shorn 
of its strength. 

The power of commanding the attention and concentrat- 
ing the mental energy upon a given object, is, however, a 



ATTEITTION. 49 

power not easily acquired nor always possessed. The diffi- 
culty of the attainment is hardly less than its importance. 
It can be made only by earnest effort, resolute purpose, dili- 
gent culture and training. There must be strength of will 
to take command of the mental faculties, and make them 
subservient to its purpose. There must be determination 
to succeed, and a wise discipline and exercise of the mind 
with reference to the end in view. This faculty, like every 
other, requires education in order to its due development. 
Whether certain Acts are performed without any Degree 
of Attention. — It is a question somewhat discussed among 
philosophers, whether those acts which from habit we have 
learned to perform with great facility, and, as we say, 
almost without thinking, are strictly voluntary ; whether 
they do or do not involve an exercise of attention. Every 
one is aware of the facility acquired by practice in many 
manual and mechanical operations, as well as in those more 
properly intellectual. A musician sits at his instrument, 
scarcely conscious of what he is doing, his attention 
absorbed, it may be, with some engrossing topic of thought 
or conyersation, while his fingers wander ad lihitum among 
the keys and strike the notes of some familiar tune. Is 
there in such a case a special act of volition and attention 
preceding each movement of the fingers as they glide over 
the keys ? And in more rapid playing, even when the atten- 
tion is in general directed to the act performed, i. e., the 
execution of the piece, is there still a special act of attention 
to the production of each note as they follow each other 
with almost inconceivable rapidity ? Dr. Stahl, Dr. Eeid, 
and others, especially many able physiologists, have an- 
swered this question in the negative, pronouncing the acts 
in question to be merely automatic and mechanical, and not 
properly involving any activity of mind. The mind, they 
would say, forms the general purpose to execute the given 
piece, but the particular movements and muscular contrac- 
tions requisite to produce the individual notes, are, for the 
3 



50 ATTENTION. 

most part, involuntary, the result of habit, not of special 
attention or volition. 

The opposite View. — On the other hand, Mr. Stewart 
maintains that all such acts, however easily and rapidly 
performed, do involve mental activity, some degree of 
attention, some special volition to produce them, although 
we may not be able to recollect those volitions afterward. 
The different steps of the process are, by the association of 
ideas, so connected, that they present themselves succes- 
sively to the mind without any effort to recall them, without 
any hesitation or reflection on our part, and with a rapidity 
proportioned to our experience. The attention and the 
volition arc instantaneous, and therefore not subsequently 
recollected. Still, he would say, the fact that we do not 
recollect them is no proof that we did not exercise them. 
The musician can, at will, perform the piece so slowly, as to 
be able to ob erve and recall the special act of attention to 
each note, and of volition to produce it. The difference in 
the two cases lies in the rapidity of the movement, not in 
the nature of the operation. 

Objection to this View. — The only objection to this view, 
of much weiglit, is the extreme rapidity of mental action, 
which this view supposes. An accomplished speaker will 
pronounce, it is said, from two to four hundred words, or 
from one to two thousand letters in a minute, and each 
letter requires a distinct contraction of the muscles, many 
of them, indeed, several contractions. Shall we suppose 
then so many thousand acts of attention and volition in 
a minute? 

Reply to this Objection. — To this it may be replied that 
the very objection carries with it its own answer, since if it 
be true that the muscles of the body move with such wonder- 
ful rapidity, it is surely not incredible that the mind should 
be at least equally rapid in its movements with the body. 
To sliow that both mind and body often do act with great 
rapidity, Mr. Stewart cites the case of the equilibrist, who 



ATTEKTIOK. 51 

balances himself on the slack rope, and at the same time 
balances a number of rods'or balls upon his chin, his position 
every instant changing, according to the accidental and ever- 
varying motions of the several objects whose equilibrium he 
is to preserve, which motions he must therefore constantly 
and closely watch. Now to do this, the closest attention, 
both of the eye and of the mind, to each of these instanta- 
neous movements, is absolutely necessary, since the move- 
ments do not follow each other in any regular order, as do 
the notes of the musician, and cannot, therefore, by any asso- 
ciation of ideas, be linked together, or laid up in the mind. 

The Cluestion undecided. — The question is a curious one, 
and with the arguments on either side, as now presented, I 
leave it to the reader's individual judgment and decision. 
Mr. Stewart is doubtless correct as to the rapidity of men- 
tal and muscular action. At the same time it seems to me 
there are actions, whatever may be true in the cases sup- 
posed, that are purely automatic and mechanical. 

Whether we attend to more than one thing at once. — 
Analogous to the question already discussed, is the inquiry 
whether the mind ever attends or can attend to more than 
one thing at one and the same time; as when I read an author, 
my attention meanwhile being directed to some other object 
than the train of thought presented by the page before me, 
so that at the end of a paragraph or a chapter I find that I 
have no idea of what I have been reading, and yet I have 
followed with the eye, and perhaps pronounced aloud, every 
word and line of the entire passage. To do this must have 
required some attention. Have I then the power of attend- 
ing to two things at once ? So, when the musician care- 
lessly strikes up a familiar air while engaged in animated 
conversation, and when the equilibrist balances both his own 
body upon the rope, and also a number of bodies upon dif- 
ferent parts of his body, each movement of each requiring 
constant and instant attention, the same question arises. 

Opinion of Mr. Stewart. — Mr. Stewart, in accordance 



52 ATTENTION. 

with the view ah-eady exj^ressed of the rapidity of the mind's 
action, maintains that we do not under any circumstances 
attend at one and the same time to two objects of thought, 
but that the mind passes with such rapidity from one to 
another object in the cases supposed, that we are uncon- 
scious of the transition, and seem to ourselves to be attend- 
ing to both objects at once. 

Illustration of this View. — An ilhistration of this we 
find in the case of vision. Only one point of the surface 
of any external object is at any one instant in the direct 
line of vision, yet so rapidly does the eye pass from point 
to point, that we seem to perceive at a glance the whole 
surface. 

How it is possible to compare different Objects. — It may 
be asked, liow is it that we are able to compare one object 
with another, if we are unable to bring both before the 
mind at once ? If, while I am thinking of A, I have no 
longer any thought whatever of B, how is it possible ever 
to bring together A and B before the mind so as to com- 
pare them ? 

The answer I conceive to be this, that the mind passes 
with such rapidity from the one to the other object, as to 
produce the same effect that would be produced were both 
objects actually before it at the same instant. The transi- 
tion is not usually a matter of consciousness; yet if any 
one will observe closely the action of his own mind in the 
exercise of comparison, he will detect the passing of his 
thoughts back and forth from one object to the other many 
times before the conclusion is reached, and the comparison 
is complete. 



CONCEPTIOl?^. 53 



CHAPTEB ill, 

CONCEPTION. 

Character of this Power. — This term has been employed 
in various senses by different writers. It does not denote 
properly a distinct faculty of the mind. I conceive of a 
thing when I make it a distinct object of thought, when I 
apprehend it, when I construe it to myself as a possible 
thing, and as being thus and thus. This form of mental 
activity enters more or less into all our mental operations ; 
it is involved in perception, memory, imagination, abstrac- 
tion, judgment, rtasoning, etc. For this reason it is not to 
be ranked as one of, and correlate with, these several specific 
faculties. Like the power of thought, and hardly even more 
limited than that, it underlies all the special faculties, and 
is essential to them all. Such at least is the ordinary 
acceptation of the term ; and when we employ it to denote 
some specific form of mental activity, we employ it in a 
sense aside from its usual and established meaning. 

Objects of Conception. — I conceive of an absent object 
of sight, as, e. g., the appearance of an absent friend, or of a 
foreign city, of the march of an army, or the eruption of 
a volcano. I conceive also of a mathematical truth, or a 
problem in astronomy. My conceptions are not limited to 
former perceptions or sensations, nor even to objects of 
sensible perception. They are not limited to material and 
sensible objects. They embrace the past and the future, the 
actual and the ideal, the sensible and the super-sensible. 

Conceptions neither true nor false. — Our conceptions 
are neither true nor false, in themselves considered ; they 
become so only when attended with some exercise of judg- 
ment or of belief. We conceive of a mountain of gold or 



54 CONCEPTION. 

of glass, and this simple conception has nothing to do 
■with truth or error. When we conceive of it, however, as 
actually existing, and in this or that place, or when we 
simply judge that such a monntain is somewhere to be 
found, then such judgment or belief is either true or false; 
but is no longer simple conception. 

Not always Possibilities; nor possible Things always 
conceivable. — Our conceptions arc not always possibihties. 
We can conceive of some things not within the limits of 
possibility. On the other hand, not every thing possible 
even is conceivable. Existence without beginning or end 
is possible, but it is not in the power of the human mind, 
strictly speaking, to conceive of such a thing. I know that 
Deity thus exists. I understand what is meant by such a 
proposition, and I believe it. But I cannot construe it to 
myself as a definite intellection, an appraiiension, as I can 
conceive of the existence of a city or a continent, or of the 
truth of a mathematical proposition. 

The same may be said of the ideas of the infinite and the 
absolute. They are not properly within the limits of 
thought, of apprehension, to the human mind. Thought 
in its very nature imposes a limitation on the object which 
is thought of — fathoms it — passes around it with its 
measuring line — apprehends it : only so far as this is done 
is the thing actually thought; only so far as it can be done 
is the thing really thinkable. But the infinite, the uncon- 
ditioned, the absolute, in their very nature unlimited, 
cannot be shut up thus within the narrow lines of human 
thought. They are inconceivable. They are not, how- 
ever, contradictory to thought. They may be true ; they 
are Irue and real, though we cannot properly conceive 
them. 

The Inconceivable becomes Impossible, when. — Not every 
thing then which is inconceivable is impossible, nor, on the 
other hand, is every thing which is impossible inconceivable. 



COKCEPTIOK. 55 

The inconceivable is impossible, at least it can be known to 
be so, only when it is either self-contradictory — as that a 
thing should be and not be at the same time — that a part 
is equal to the whole, etc. ; or when it is contradictory of 
the laws of thought, as that two straight lines should 
inclose a space — that an event may occur without a cause 
— that space is not necessary to the existence of matter, or 
time to the succession of events. These things are un- 
thinkable ; but they are more than that, contradictory of 
the established laws of thought ; and they are impossible, 
because thus contradictory, and not merely because incon- 
ceivable. It is hardly true, as is sometimes affirmed, and 
as Dr. Wayland has stated, that our conceptions are the 
limits of possibility. 

Mr. Stewart's use of the term Conception. — Mr, Stewart 
has employed the term Conception in a somewhat peculiar 
manner, and has assigned it a definite place among the 
faculties of the mind. He uses it to denote " that power 
of the miud which enables it to form a notion of an absent 
object of perception, or of a sensation which we have 
formerly felt." It is the office of this faculty *'^to pre- 
sent us with an exact transcript of what we have felt or 
perceived." In this respect it differs from imagination, 
which gives not an exact transcript, but one more or less 
altered or modified, combining our conceptions so as to 
form new results. It differs from memory in that it 
involves no idea of time, no recognition of the thing con- 
ceived, as a thing formerly perceived. 

Objection to this use. — This use of the term is, on some 
accounts, objectionable. It is certainly not the ordinary 
sense of the word, but a departure from established usage. 
It is an arbitrary limitation of a word to denote a part only 
instead of the whole of that which it properly signifies. 
There is no reason, in the nature of the case, why the 
notion we form of an absent object of perception, or of a 



56 CONCEPTION. 

sensation, should be called a conception, rather than our 
notion of an abstract truth, a proposition in morals, or a 
mathematical problem. I am not aware that any special 
importance attaches to the former more than to the latter 
class of conceptions. Indeed, Sir W. Hamilton limits the 
term to the latter. But this again is not in accordance 
with established usage. 



INTELLECTUAL FACULTIES, 



-<^>- 



PART FIRST 
THE PRESENTATIVE POWER 



THE PREVENTATIVE POWER. 



SENSE, OR PERCEPTION BY THE SENSES. 
§ I.-GENERAL OBSERVATIONS. 

This Faculty the Foundation of our Knowledge. — Of 

the cognitive powers of the mind, the first to be noticed, 
according to the analysis and distribution already given, is 
the Presentative Power — the power of cognizing external 
objects through the senses. This claims our first atten- 
tion, inasmuch as it lies, chronologically at least, at the 
foundation of all our cognitive powers, and in truth, of our 
entire mental activity. We can, perhaps, conceive of a 
being so constituted as to be independent of sense, and yet 
possess mental activity ; and we can even conceive such a 
mind as taking cognizance, in some mysterious way, of 
objects external to itself. But not such a being is man — 
not such the nature of the human mind. Its activity is 
first awakened through sense ; from sense it derives its 
knowledge of the external world, of whatever lies without 
and beyond the charmed circle of self ; and whether all our 
knowledge is, strictly speaking, derived from sense, or not — 
a question so much disputed, and which we will not hero 
stay to discuss — there can be no doubt that the activity of 
sense, and the knowledge thus acquired, is at least the 
beginning and foundation of all our mental acquisitions. 
We are constantly receiving impressions from without 
through the senses. In this way the mind is first awakened 



60 PERCEPTION BY THE SENSES. 

to activity, and from this source we derive our knowledge 
of the external world. 

General Character of this Faculty. — In its general char- 
acter the faculty now under consideration, as the name 
indicates, is presentative and intuitive. It presents rather 
than represents objects, and what the mind thus perceives 
it perceives intuitively, rather than as the result of reflec- 
tion. The knowledge which it gives is immediate knowl- 
edge, the knowledge of that whicli is now and here present, 
in time and space. 

Involves a twofold Element. — Looking more closely at 
the character of this faculty, we find it to involve a twofold 
element, which we cannot better indicate than by the terms 
suhjective and objective. There is, in the first place, the 
knowledge or consciousness of our own sentient organism 
as affected, and there is also the knowledge of something 
external to, and independent of the mind itself, or the mc, 
as the producing cause of this affection of the organism. 
We know, by one and the same act, ourselves as affected, 
and the existence and presence of an external something 
affecting us. This presupposes, of course, the distinct inde- 
pendent existence of the 7ne and tlie iiot-me — of ourselves 
as thinking and sentient beings, and of objects external to 
ourselves, and material, — a distinction which lies at the 
foundation of all sense-perception. All perception by the 
senses involves, and presupposes, the existence of a sentient 
being capable of perceiving, and of an object capable of 
being perceived. It supposes, also, such a relation between 
the two, that the former is affected by the presence of the 
latter. From this results perception in its tAvofold aspect, 
or the knowledge, on the part of the sentient mind, at 
once of itself as affected, and of the object as affecting it. 
According as one or the other of these elements is more 
directly the object of attention, so tlie subjective and the 
objective character predominate in the act of perception. 
If the former, ihen we think chiefly of the me as affected, 



PERCEPTIOK BY THE SENSES. Gl 

and are scarcely conscious of the external object as the 
source or the producing cause ; if the latter, the reverse 
is true. 

§ II.-ANALYSIS OF THE PERCEPTIVE PROCESS. 

Simple Sensation.— The nature of the presentative power 
may be better understood by observing closely the different 
steps of the process. As we come into contact with the 
external world, the first thing of which we are conscious, 
the first step in the process of cognition, is doubtless simple 
sensation. Something touches me, my bodily organism is 
thereby affected, and I am conscious, at once, of a certain 
feeling or sensation. I do not know as yet what has pro- 
duced the sensation, or whether anything produced it. I 
do not as yet recognize it as the result of an affection of the 
bodily organism, or even as pertaining to that organism in 
distinction from the spiritual principle. I am conscious 
only of a certain feeling. This is simple sensation — a 
purely subjective process. 

Recognition of it as such. — We do not, however, stop 
here. The mind is at once aroused by the occurrence of 
the phenomenon supposed, the attention is directed to it. 
I cognize it as sensation, as feeling. If it be not the 
first instance of the kind in my experience, I distingiiish 
it from other sensations which I have felt. 

Distribution of it to the Parts affected. — More than this ; 
I am conscious not only of the given sensation, but of its 
being an affection of my bodily organism, and of this or that 
part of the organism ; I distinguish the body as the seat of 
the sensation, and this or that part of the body as the part 
affected. The organism as thus affected becomes itself 
an object of thought as distinct from the thinking mind 
that animates and pervades it. It becomes to me an 
externality, having extension and parts out of and distinct 
from each other. As thus viewed, and brought now for the 
first time under the eye of consciousness, it becomes known 



(32 PERCEPTION BY THE SENSES. 

to me as the 7ion-ego, still coiineclcd, however, by sensation 
with the ego, the sentient 2)rinciple ; and as thus viewed, I 
become aware that the sensation which I feel is an affection 
of that organism, and of a certain portion of it, as the hand, 
or the foot. This cognizance of the sensation, as such, lus 
pertaining to the organism, and to this or that part of the 
same, and the consequent cognizance of the organism as 
such, as distinct from the sentient mind, and as thus and 
thus affected, is no longer simple sensation, it is perception. 

Cognition of something external to the Organism itsell 
— This is the most simple form of immediate perception. 
The process does not, however, necessarily stop here. I 
am conscious not only of this or that part of my organism 
as affected, but of something external to the organism 
itself, in contact with and affecting it. This organism 
with which I find myself connected, the seat of sensation, 
tlie object of perception, is capable of self-movement in 
obedience to my volitions. 1 am conscious of the effort to 
move my person, and conscious also of being resisted in 
those movements by something external in» contact with 
my organism. This yet unknown something becomes now 
the object of attention and perception — this new phenom- 
enon — resistance, something resisting. To perceive that I 
am resisted, is to perceive that something resists, and to 
perceive this is to perceive the object itself which offers 
such resistance. I may not know every thing pertaining 
to it, what sort of thing it may be, but I know this respect- 
ing it, that it exists, that it is extenial to my organism, 
that it resists my movements. Thus the outer world 
becomes directly an object of perception. 

In what Sense these several Steps distinct.— In the pre- 
ceding analysis, in order more clearly to illustrate the 
nature of the i)rocess, we have regarded the act of percep- 
tion as broken into several distinct parts, or steps of pro- 
gress. This, however, is not strictly correct its regards the 
psychology of the matter. Logically, we may distinguish 



PERCEPTION BY THE SENSES. 63 

the simple sensation as mere feeling, from the reference of 
the same to this or that part of the bodily organism as 
affected, and each of these again, from the cognizance of 
the external object, which by contact or resistance pro- 
duces the sensation. Chronologically, the act is one and 
indivisible. The sensation and the perception are synchro- 
nous. We cannot separate the act of sense-perception into 
the consciousness of a sensation, the consciousness of the 
bodily organism as affected by that sensation, and the con- 
sciousness of an external something as the proximate cause 
of that affection. To experience a sensation, is to experi- 
ence it as here or there in the sentient organism, and to 
perceive contact or resistance, is to perceive something in 
contact or resisting. There may, however, be sensation 
without cognizance of the external producing cause. 

Restricted Sense of the term Perception. — According to 
the view now advanced, perception is immediate ; not a 
matter of inference, not a roundabout reflective process. 
It is a cognizance direct and intuitive of the bodily organi- 
zation as thus and thus affected, and of an external some- 
thing in correlation with it, affecting and limiting that 
organism in its movements. 

Usually, however, a wider range has been given to the 
term, and the faculty thereby denoted. It lias been made 
to comprehend any mental process by which we refer a 
specific sensation to something external as its producing 
cause. It is thus employed by Eeid and Stewart, and such 
has been in fact the prevalent use of the term. According 
to this, when we experience the sensation of fragrance, 
and refer that sensation to the presence of a rose, or the 
sensation of sound, and refer it to the stroke of a bell, or a 
passing carriage, we exercise the faculty of perception. 
Evidently, however, our knowledge in these cases is merely 
a matter of inference, of judgment, not of immediate 
direct perception, not in fact of perception at all. All 
that we properly perceive in such a case, all that we are 



64 PERCEPTION BY THE SENSES. 

directly conscious of, is the fragrance or the sound. That 
these are produced by the rose and the bell is not i)er- 
ceived, but only conceived, inferred — known, if at all, only 
by the aid of previous experience. 

Sensation as distinguished from Perception. — According 
to the view now presented, sensation^ as distinguished from 
perception, is the simple feeling which results from a certain 
affection of the organism. It is known to us merely as 
feeling. Perception takes cognizance of the feeling as an 
affection of the organism, and also of the organism as thus 
affected, and consequently as external to the me, extended, 
having parts, etc. It apprehends also objects external to 
the organism itself limiting and affecting its movements. 
Sensation is the indispensable condition of perception. If 
there were no sensation, there Avould be no perception. 
The one does not precede, however, and the other follow in 
order of time, but the one being given, the other is given 
along with it. The two do not, however, coexist in equal 
strength, but in the relation, as stated by Hamilton, of 
inverse ratio ; that is, beyond a certain point, the stronger 
the sensation, the weaker the perception, and vice versa. 

Sensation as an Affection of the Mind. — It has been 
common to speak of sensation as lying wholly in the mind. 
Primarily, however, it is an affection of the nervous organ- 
ism, and through that organism, as thus affected, an impres- 
sion is made on the mind. If it were not for the mind 
present with the organism, and susceptible of impression 
from it, and thus cognizant of changes in it, the same 
clianges might be produced in the organism as now, but we 
should be entirely unconscious of and insensible to them. 
In certain states of the system this actually happens, as in 
sound sleep, the magnetic state, the state produced by cer- 
tain medicinal ag(>nts as ether, chloroform, opium, and the 
intoxicating drugs of the East. In those cases the connec- 
tion between the mind and the nervous organism seems to 
be in some manner interrupted or suspended, and conse- 



PERCEPTION BY THE SENSES. 65 

quently there is for the time no sensation. The nerves 
may be irritated, divided even, and still no pain is felt. 

It is not true, however, that the sensation is wholly in the 
mind. It is in the living animated organism, as pervaded 
by the mind or spiritual principle, mysteriously present in 
every part of that organism, and cognizant of its changes ; 
and neither the body alone, nor the mind alone, can be said 
to possess this faculty, but the two united in that complex 
mysterious unity which constitutes our present being. 

§ III.-ANALYSIS AND CLASSIFICATION OF THE 
QUALITIES OF BODIES. 

Difference of Qualities. — The qualities of bodies as known 
to us through sensation and perception are many and vari- 
ous. On examination, a difference strikes us as existing 
among these qualities, which admits of being made the 
basis of classification. Some of them are qualities which 
strike us at once as essential to the very existence of matter, at 
least in our notion of it, so that we cannot in thought divest 
it of these qualities, and still retain our conception of matter. 
Others are not of this nature. Extension, divisibility, size, 
figure, situation, and some others, are of the former class. 
If matter exists at all, it must, according to our own con- 
ceptions, possess these qualities. We cannot think them 
away from it, and leave matter still existing. But we can 
conceive of matter as destitute of color, flavor, savor, heat, 
cold, weight, sound, hardness, etc. These are contingent 
and accidental properties not necessary to its existence. 

How named and distinguished. — Philosophers have called 
the former class primary^ the latter secondary qualities. 
The former are known a priori^ the latter by experience. 
The former are known as qualities, in themselves, the latter 
only through the affections of our senses. 

The primary qualities then have these characteristics : 

1. They are essential to the very existence of matter, at 
least in our conception. 



66 PERCEPTION BY THE SENSES. 

2. They are to be known a priori. 
'6. They are known as such, or in themselves. 
The secondary, on the contrary, are : 

1. Accidental, not essential to the notion of matter. 

2. To be known only by experience. 

3. To be learned only through the affection of the senses. 
Further Division of secondary Qualities. — A further 

division, however, is capable of being made. The secon- 
dary qualities, as now defined, comprise, in realit}^, two 
classes. There are some, which, while known to us only 
through the senses, have still an existence as qualities of 
external objects, independent of our senses. As such they 
are objects of direct perception. Others, again, are known, 
not as qualities of bodies, but only as affections of sense, 
not as objective, but only as subjective, not as perceptions, 
but only as sensations. Thus I distinguish the smell, the 
taste, and the color of an orange. What I distinguish, 
however, is after all only certain sensations, certam affec- 
tions of my own organism. What may be the peculiar 
properties or qualities in the object itself which are the 
exciting cause of these sensations in me, I know not. My 
perception does not extend to them at all. It is quite 
otherwise with the qualities of weight, hardness, compres- 
sibility, fluidity, elasticity, and others of that class. They 
are objects of perception, and not of sensation merely. 

These Classes, how distinguished. — The class first named, 
are qualities of bodies as related to other bodies. The 
other class are qualities of bodies as related only to our 
nervous organization. The former all relate to bodies as 
occupying and moving in space, and come under the cate- 
gory of resistance. The latter relate to bodies only as 
capable of producing certain sensations in us. We may 
call the former mcclmnical, the latter physiological. 

Connection of Sensation with the external Object. — 
From long habit of oonnocting the sensation with the 
external body which produces it, we find it difficult to 



PEECEPTION^ BY THE SENSES. 67 

persuade ourselves that taste and smell are mere affections 
of our senses, or that color is really and simply an affection 
ot the optic nerve of tlie beholder, and that what is actu- 
dly perceived in these instances is not properly a quality of 
the external object. A little reflection, however, will con- 
vince us that all which comes to our knowledge in these 
cases, all that we are properly cognizant of, is the affection 
of our own nervous organism, and that whatever may be 
the nature of the qualities in the object which are the pro- 
ducing cause of these sensations in us, they are to us occult 
and wholly unknown. 

Power of producing these Sensations. — It is not to be 
denied, of course, that there is in external objects the power 
of producing these sensations in us, under given circum- 
stances ; but to what that power is owing, in what pecu- 
liarity of constitution or condition it consists, we know not. 
We have but one name, moreover, for the power of pro- 
ducing, and the effect produced. Thus the color, taste, 
smell, etc., of an object may denote either the sensation in 
us, or the unknown property of matter by virtue of which 
the sensation is awakened. It is only in the sense last 
mentioned, that the qualities under consideration may 
properly be called qualities of bodies. 

Enumeration of the several Qualities as now classed. — 
According to the classification now made, the qualities of 
bodies may be thus enumerated. 

I. Primary. — Extension, divisibility, size, density, figure, 
absolute incompressibility, mobility, situation. 

II. Secondary. — A. Objective, or meclicunical — as heavy 
or light, hard or soft, firm or fluid, rough or smooth, com- 
pressible or incompressible, resilient or irresilient, and any 
other qualities of this general nature resulting from attrac- 
tion, repulsion, etc. 

B. Subjective, or 'physiological — as color, sound, flavor, 
savor, temperature, tactual sensation, and certain other 
affections of the senses of this nature. 



68 PERCEPT lOX BY THE SENSES. 

§ IV -ORGANS OF SENSE.-ANALYSIS OF THEIR 
SEVERAL FUNCTIONS. 

Number of the Senses. — The different senses are usually 
reckoned as five in number. They may all be regarded, 
however, as modifications of one general sense, that of 
touch — or, in other words, the susceptibility of the nervous 
system to be excited by foreign substances brought into con- 
tact with it. This is the essential condition of sensation in 
any case, and the several senses, so called, are but so many 
variations in the mode of manifesting this excitability. 
There is a reason, nevertheless, for assigning five of these 
modifications and no more, and that is, that the anatomical 
structure indicates cither a distinct organ, as the ear, the 
eye, etc., or at least a distinct branch of the nervous 
apparatus, as in the case of smell and taste, while the Avhole 
nervous expansion as spread out over the surface of the 
body contributes to the general sense of touch. 

The Senses related to each other. — Distinct OfB.ce of each. 
— It is evident enough that these several senses sustain a 
certain relation to each other. They are so many and no 
more, not merely by accident ; not merely because so many 
could find room in the bodily organization ; not merely 
because it might be convenient to have so many. Let us 
look at the office performed by each, and we shall see that 
while each has its distinct function, not interchangeable 
with that of any other, it is a function more or less neces- 
sary to the animal economy. Remembering that the design 
and use of the several senses is to put us in possession of 
data, by means of which, directly or indirectly, wo may gain 
correct knowledge of the external world, let us suppose the 
inquii-y to be raised. What senses ought man to have for 
this purpose ? What does he need, the material universe 
remaining what it is ? 

Function of the Sense of Touch. — Things exist about us 
in space, having certain properties and relations. We 



PERCEPTION BY THE SENSES. 69 

need a sense then, first and chiefly, that shall acquaint ns 
with objects thus existing, taking cognizance of what lies 
immediately about us in space. This we have in the gen- 
eral sense of touch, making us acquainted with certain 
objective or mechanical qualities of external objects. 

This Sense, how limited.— This, however, avails only for 
objects within a short distance, and capable of being brought 
into contact. It operates also synthetically and slowly, part 
after part of the object being given as we are brought into 
contact with different portions of it successively, until the 
process is so far complete that, from the ensemble of these 
different parts, our understanding can construct the whole. 

Possibility of a Sense that shall meet these Limitations. 
— We can conceive of a sense that should differ in both 
these respects — that should take cognizance of distant 
objects, not capable perhaps of being brought into contact — 
and that should also operate analytically, or work from a 
given whole to the parts, and not from the parts to a whole, 
thus giving us possession at once of a complete object or 
series of objects. Such a sense, it is easy to see, would pos- 
sess decided advantages, and in connection with the one 
already considered, would seem to bring within the sphere 
of our cognizance almost the complete range of external 
nature. This we have, and this exactly, in the sense of 
vision. It takes in objects at a distance, and takes in the 
whole at a glance. 

This new Sense still limited. — This new sense, however, 
convenient and useful as it is,has evidently its limitations. It 
is available only through a given medium, the light. Strictly 
speaking, it is the light only that we see, and not the distant 
object ; that is known indirectly by means of the light that, 
variously modified, travels from it to the eye. When this 
fails, as it does during several hours of the twenty-four, or 
when it is intercepted by objects coming between and shut- 
ting out the forms on which the eye seeks in vain to rest, 
then our knowledge from this source is cut off. 



70 PERCEPTION BY THE SENSES. 

Still another Sense desirable.— Under these circumstances, 
might it not be well, were there given an additional sense, 
of the same general nature and design, but operating 
through a different medium, sure to be present wherever 
animal life exists, so that even in the darkness of the night, 
or the gloom of the dungeon, we might still have means of 
knowing something of the surrounding objects. And what 
if this medium, or avenue of sense, were of such a nature 
as to be capable of modification, and control, to some 
extent, on our part, and at our pleasure, so as to form a 
means of voluntary communication with our fellow-beings. 
Would not such an arrangement be of great service ? 
Exactly these things are wanted; exactly these wants are 
met, and these objects accomplished, by a new sense answer- 
ing to these conditions — the sense of hearing — the cog- 
nizance of sound. This we produce when we please by 
the spoken word, the vocal utterance, whether of speech, 
or musical note, or inarticulate cry, varied as we please, 
high, low, loud, soft— a complete alphabet of expression, 
conveying thus by signals, at once rapid and significant, 
the varying moods and phases of our inner life to other 
beings that had else been strangers, for the most jmrt, to 
the thoughts and feelings which agitate our bosoms. 

Senses for another Class of Qualities. — The senses, as 
thus far analyzed, have reference primarily to the number, 
magnitude, and distance of objects as occupying space — 
to quantities rather than qualities. Were it i)ossible now 
to add to these a sense, or senses that should take cogni- 
zance of quality, as well as existence and quantity — that 
should detect, to some extent at least, the chemical proper- 
ties of bodies as connected especially with the functions of 
respiration and nutrition — the list of senses would seem to 
be complete. This addition is made, this knowledge given, 
in the senses of smell a!id taste. 

Possibility of additional Senses. — To those already 
named, other senses might doubtless hav.^ been added by 



PERCEPTION BY THE SENSES. 71 

the Creator, which would have revealed, it may be, proper- 
ties of matter of which we have now no conception. It is 
not to be supposed that we know every thing respecting the 
nature and qualities of even the most familiar and common 
objects. Many things there may be, actual, real, in the 
world about us, of, which we know nothing, because they 
come not within the range of any of our senses. But all 
that is essential to life, and happiness, and highest welfare 
is doubtless imparted by the present arrangement ; and 
when closely studied, no one of these senses will be found 
superfluous, no one. overlapping the province of another, 
but working each its specific end, and all in harmony. 

The proper Office of Psychology in respect to the Senses. — 
It is the province of the anatomist and the physiologist to 
explain the mechanical structure of the several organs of 
sense, and their value as parts of the physical system. The 
psychologist has to do with them only as instruments of 
the mind, and it is for him to show their connection and 
proper office as such. This has been attempted in the 
preceding analysis. 

The kind of Knowledge afforded by the Senses. — It is to 
be noticed, in addition, that with the exception of the tac- 
tual sense, and possibly of sight, these senses give us no 
direct, immediate knowledge of external things. They 
simply furnish data, signs, intimations, by the help of which 
Ihe understanding forms its conclusions of the world with- 
out. They are the receiving agents of the mind. This is, in 
fact, the chief office of sense, to receive through its various 
avenues the materials from which the understanding shall 
frame conceptions of things without ; to convey, as it were, 
a series of telegraphic despatches along those curious and 
slender filaments that compose the nervous organization, 
by means of which the soul, keeping her hidden seat and 
chamber within, may receive communication from the dis- 
tant provinces of her empire. These signs the understand- 
ing interprets ; and in so far as this is the tme nature of the 



72 P E R C K P T I N BY THE SENSES. 

process, it is not ii 2)roccss of immediate and proper per- 
ception. I hear, for example, a noise. All that I really 
perceive in this case is the sensation of sound. I refer it, 
however, to an external cause, to a carriage passing in the 
street. I specify, moreover, the kind of carriage, perhaps 
a coach, or a wagon with iron axles. I have observed, have 
learned by experience, that sounds of this nature are pro- 
duced in this way, that is, by carriages passing, and by such 
carriages. Hence I judge that the sound which I now hear 
is produced in the same way. It is an inference, a concep- 
tion merely. All that sense does is to receive and transmit 
the sign, which the understanding interprets by the aid of 
former experience. And the same is true of the other 
senses, with the exceptions named. 

Not therefore of little Value. — We are not to infer, how- 
ever, that these senses are on this account of no special 
value or importance to us. They do precisely what is 
needed. They put us in possession of just the data wanted 
in order to the necessary information concerning external 
things. It is only the theorist who undervalues the senses, 
and he only in his closet. No man, in the full possession 
of his reason, and his right mind, can go forth into this fair 
and goodly world, and not thank God for every one of those 
senses — sight, hearing, taste, touch, and smell. Their true 
and fall value, however, we never learn till we come to be 
deprived of their use ; till with Milton we exclaim, 

" Seasons return ; but not to me returns 
Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn." 

»V.-AMOUNT OF INFORMATION DERIVED FROM 
THE RESPECTIVE SENSES. 

A further Question as to one Class of the Senses. — The 

relations and specific functions of the several senses have 
been already described. Some further questions arise, 
however, rospooting the precise amount and kind of infor- 
mation atforded by that class of the senses which, as we 



PERCEPTION BY THE SEI^SES. 73 

have seen, relates to the spatial properties of bodies, in dis- 
tinction from the chemical, viz. : hearing, sight, and touch. 

What is given in Hearing. — And first, as to the sense of 
hearing. What is it precisely that we hear ? When we listen 
to a sound, we speak of hearing the object that produces 
the sound ; we say, I hear a bell, a bird, a gun, etc. 
Strictly speaking, we do not hear the object, but only the 
sound. It is not the bell or the bird that we hear, but the 
vibration of the air produced by bell and bird. This has 
been already illustrated by reference to a carriage passing in 
the street. It is only by experience, aided by other senses, 
that we learn to refer the sound to its producing cause. 

Hearing not properly Perception. — Is hearing then a sen- 
sation merely, or is it a perception ? If by perception we 
mean a direct knowledge of the external object — which is 
the proper sense of the word — hearing certainly is not 
perception. It gives us no such immediate knowledge. 
What we perceive in hearing is merely the sensation of 
sound. It may be doubted whether by this sense alone we 
should ever get the idea that what we hear is any thing 
external to ourselves. 

Affords the means of Judging. — As it is, however, we 
judge, not only of the existence and nature, but of the 
distance and direction of the external object whence the 
sound proceeds. We learn to do this with great correct- 
ness, and with great facility. No sooner do we hear a 
sound, in most instances, than we form an opinion at once, 
from what direction it comes, and what produces it ; nor 
are we often mistaken in our judgment. The faculty of 
judging by the ear as to the direction of the sound, and 
the nature of the object producing it, may be cultivated 
l)y care and practice to a remarkable degree of accuracy. 
Napoleon was seldom mistaken as to the direction and 
distance of a cannonade. It is said that the Indian of the 
north-western prairies by applying his ear to the ground, 
will detect the approach of a body of cavalry at a distance 
4 



74 PERCEPTION BY THE SENSES. 

beyond the reach of vision, and distinguish their tread 
from that of a herd of buffaloes. 

Number of Sounds. — The number of sounds which the 
ear can distinguish is ahnost without limit There are, it 
is said, five hundred distinct tones which an ear of usual 
accuracy can recognize, and each of these tones admits of 
five hundred variations of loudness, giving, in all, two 
hundred and fifty thousand different sounds. 

Power of Sound over the Mind. — The power of sound to 
affect the mind, and especially the feelings, is too well 
known to require specific statement. The note of an 
instrument, the tone of a human voice, the wild warbling 
of a bird, the tinkling of a bell, the variations of speech 
and of song, from the high and shrill to the low and heavy 
intonation, from the quick and impetuous to the slow and 
plaintive movement, these simple varieties of tone affect 
powerfully the heart, and find their way at once and irre- 
sistibly to the feelings. Hence the power of music over even 
the uncultivated mind ; hence too in no small degree the 
power of the skillful orator over the feehngs of his audience. 
It is not merely, nor so much, the thing said, in many cases, 
as the way of saying it, that touches and sways the assem- 
bled multitude. Tones and sounds have a natural mean- 
ing. They are the natural language of the heart. They 
express emotion, and hence awaken emotions in others. 

The Question as to Sight. — Turning now from the seuse 
of hearing to that of sight, the question arises, What is it 
precisely that we perceive by the eye ? When we fix the 
eye upon any object, more or less remote, what is it, strictly 
speaking, that we see, extension and figure, or only color ? 
Is it by vision that we learn primarily the distance of 
objects and their locality? These are ])oints requiring 
investigation. 

Does Sight give Extension and Figure. — As to the first 
of these questions, whether extension and figure are objects 
of direct visual perception. No doubt they arc associated 



PERCEPTION BY THE SENSES. 75 

in our minds with the act of vision, so that the moment we 
see an object we obtain an idea of it as extended, and of 
such and such dimensions and figure. The question is, 
whether it is really through the seuse of sight that we obtain 
this idea, or in some other way. Had we no other means 
of information, would sight ^one give us this ? When we 
first open our eyes on external objects, do we receive the 
idea of extension and figure, or only of color ? The fact 
that as matters are, we cannot in our experience separate 
the notion of some surface extension from the sensation of 
color, is not decisive of these questions. We cannot, as Dr. 
Brown observps, separate the color from the convexity and 
magnitude of an oak before us, but this does not prove that 
convexity and magnitude are objects of immediate and 
original perception. If every surface in nature had been 
convex, suggests the same writer, we should probably have 
found the same difficulty in attempting to conceive of color 
as separate from convexity, that we now find in attempting 
to conceive of it as separate from length and breadth. As 
it is, however, our sensation of color has not always been 
associated with convexity, while it has been always asso- 
ciated with surface extension. Hence it is, he maintains, 
that we seem to perceive, by the eye, the length and 
breadth of objects along with their color. 

Argument from the Affection of a Portion of the Retina. 
— The fact that in vision a certain portion of the retina in 
length and breadth is actually affected by the light falling 
on it, has been supposed by some to be conclusive of the 
fact that we perceive the length and breadth of the external 
object by the eye. This does not necessarily follow. As Dr. 
Brown contends, it is equally true that a certain part of 
the organ of smell is affected by odors, and a certain part 
of the auditory nerve is affected by sounds, yet we are not 
conscious of any perception of extension by either of these 
organs ; we neither smell nor hear the length, and breadth, 
and magnitude of objects ; nor is there any reason to sup- 



7G PERCEPTION BY THE SENSES. 

pose that the piirticular portion of the retina affected has 
any thing to do with the original sensation of sight. 

Amount of the preceding Arguments. — These arguments, 
however, do not strike me as concUisive. Tliey merely 
show the possibility that extension and ligure may be 
acquired rather than originaBi perceptions. They do not 
amount to positive evidence that they are so. 

An Argument to the Contrary. — On the other hand, 
there is one consideration of a positive character, which to 
most minds will he likely to outweigh the merely negative 
arguments already adduced. Color is a proi:)erty of light, 
and light comes to us reflected from objects occupying 
si)ace ; we perceive it only as we perceive it spread over 
and reflected from some surface. Extension, then, surface 
expansion of the reflecting object, is the indispensable con- 
dition of the visibility of light itself, and so of color, as 
reflected from the object. Now it is difficult to persuade 
ourselves that what we know to be an essential condition 
of the perception of color, and what we seem to perceive 
along with the color, and cannot, even in thought, wholly 
separate from it, is not, after all, really perceived by the eye. 

Argument from recent Discoveries. — Indeed, recent dis- 
coveries in science seem to vindicate that not only surface 
extension, but ti-inal extension, or solidity, may be an 
object of direct perception by the eye. I refer. to the 
researches of Wheatstone, in binocular vision, which go to 
show, that in consequence of the difference of the images 
formed upon the right and the left eye, as occupying differ- 
ent positions with reference to the object seen, we are 
enabled by the eye to cognize the solidity as w^ell as the 
extension of objects. The difference of figure in the two 
images gives us this. That such is the case is shown by an 
instrument, the stereoscope, so constructed as to present 
separately the image as formed on each eye, wliich, when 
separately viewed, appear as mere plane surfaces, but when 
viewed together, tlie riglit image with the right eye, and 



PERCEPTIOi^ BY THE SEI^SES. 77 

the left one with the left eye, at the same time, present no 
longer the appearance of plane surfaces, but the two 
images combine to form one distinct figure, and that a 
solid, having length, breadth, thickness, and standing out 
with all the semblance of the real object. 

It is. hardly necessary to say that if extension is an object 
of perception by the eye, so also is figure, which is merely 
the li7nitaUon of extension in different directions. 

Second Question— Does Sight give Distance ? — Is it also 
by vision that we obtain the idea of the distance of objects 
and their externality ? Does vision alone give the idea 
that what we see is numerically distinct from ourselves, 
and that it occupies this or that particular locality ? So it 
would seem, judging from the impression left upon the 
mind in the act of vision. We seem to see the object as 
here or there, external, more or less distant in space. We 
distinguish it from ourselves. 

The negative View.— This is denied by some. All that 
we see, they contend, is merely the light coming from the 
object, and from the variations and modifications which 
this exhibits we learn to judge by experience of the distance 
and locality of the object. It is a matter of judgment and 
not of perception. We have learned to associate the two 
things, the visual appearance and the distance. 

Argument in the Negative. — In proof of this they adduce 
the fact that we are frequently mistaken in our estimate of 
the distance of objects. If there be more or fewer inter- 
vening objects than usual, if the atmosphere be more or 
less clear than usual, or any like circumstance affords a 
variation from our ordinary experience, we are misled as to 
the distance of the object. Hence we mistake the distance 
of ships at sea, or of objects on a prairie or a desert, the 
width of rivers, the height of steeples, towers, etc. 

Further Argument in the Negative. — It is further con- 
tended that facts show that the impressions of sight alone, 
uncorrected by experience, do not convey the idea of dis- 



78 PEKCEPTIOK BY THE SENSES. 

taDce at all, but that what we see seems to be in connection 
with the eye itself, until we learn the contrary by the aid of 
other senses. This, it is said, is the experience of person^ 
who have been operated upon for cataract, particularly of 
a patient whose case is described by Cheselden, and who 
thought every thing which he saw, touched his eyes. It is 
said also to have been the same with Casper Uauser, when 
first liberated from the long confinement of his dungeon, 
and permitted to look out upon tli^ external world. The 
goodly landscape seemed to him to be a group of figures, 
drawn upon the window. 

Force of this Argument. — This, however, is not incon- 
sistent with the perception of externality by vision, since 
even what seems to be in contact with the eye, nay, what is 
known to be so, may still be known as external. Contact 
implies externality. It is very much to be doubted, more- 
over, whether the cases now referred to, coincide with the 
usual experience of those who are learning to see. The 
little child seems to recognize the externality and remote- 
ness from his own person of the objects which attract his 
attention, as soon as he learns to observe surrounding 
objects at all, and, though he may not judge correctly of 
their relative distance from himself, never seems by his 
movements to suppose that they are in contact with his eye 
or with any part of his person. The young of animals, 
also, as soon as they are born, seem to perceive by the eye, 
the externality, the direction, and the distance of objects, 
and govern their movements accordingly. It is not; in 
these cases, a matter of experience, but of direct percep- 
tion. These facts render it doubtful, to say the least, 
whether the common impression — that which in spit^ of all 
arguments to the contrary, is, and always will be made upon 
the mind in the act of vision, viz., that we see objects as 
external, as having locality, and as more or less remote 
from us — is not, after all, the correct im])ression. 

Learning to judge of Distance not inconsistent with this 



PERCEPTION" BY THE SENSES. 79 

View. — Nor does it conflict with this view that we learn to 
judge of the true distance of objects, and are often deceived 
in regard to it. The measurement of distance, the more or 
less of it, is of course a matter of experience, a thing to be 
learned by practice. It does not follow, however, that we 
may not by the eye directly, and at first, perceive an object 
to be external, and removed from us, in other words dis- 
tant, though we may not know at first how distant. The 
rays of light that come to us from this external object, 
may give us direct perception of the object as external, as 
extended, and as occupying apparently a given locality in 
space more or less remote, while at the same time it may 
be left to other senses and to experience to determine how 
great that distance is. 

Questions as to Touch. — Passing now from the sense of 
sight to that of touch, we find similar questions discussed 
among philosophers respecting the precise information 
afi'orded by this sense. Does touch give us immediate per- 
ception of externality, extension, form, hardness, softness, 
etc., including the various mechanical properties of bodies ? 
To this sense it has been common to ascribe these faculties 
of perception. They are so attributed by Reid, Upham, 
Wayland, and, I believe, by modern writers generally, with 
the exception of Brown and Hamilton. 

Probability of another Source of Information. — It may 
be questioned, I think, whether, as regards some of these 
qualities at least, it is not rather the consciousness of resist- 
ance to muscular effort, than the sense of touch, properly 
speaking, that is the informing source. So, for example, as 
to hardness; the application of an external body lightly to 
the hand awakens the sense of touch, but conveys no idea 
of hardness. Let the same object be allowed to rest with 
gradually increasing weight upon the hand until it becomes 
painful, and we get the idea of weight, gravitation, but 
not of the hardness or impenetrability of the object. It is 
only when our muscular effort to move or penetrate the 



80 PERCEPTION BY THE SENSES. 

external body is met and resisted by the same, tbafc we 
learn the impenetrability of tlie opposing bod\\ 

Other Perceptions attributable to the same Source. — So 
with regard to externality, extension, and form. When an 
external object, a culje, for example, or an ivory ball is 
placed on the palra of the hand, sensation is awakened, but 
is that sensation necessarily accompanied with the percep- 
tion of the external object as such ? Does the mere tactual 
sensation, in the first instance, and of itself, inform us that 
there is something external to ourselves, that what we feel 
is not a part of our own organism ? We are conscious of a 
change in the sensation of the part affected, but are we 
immediately conscious that this change is produced by 
something external ? Let there be given, however, the 
consciousness of resistance to our muscular movements, as 
when the cube or ball, for instance, prevents the effort to 
close the hand, or when our locomotion is impeded by the 
presence of some obstacle, and will not the same resistance 
inform us of the extension of tlie resisting body, and so of 
its form and figure? We learn whereabout in space this 
resistance occurs, and where it ceases. The tactual sensa- 
tion would indeed very soon come to our aid in this cogni- 
tion, and serve as a guiding sense, even in the absence of 
the former. The question is, whether this alone would, in 
the first instance, give us such cognitions? 

Our first Ideas of Extension, how derived. — We have 
had reference in this dircussion only to the qualities of 
external bodies. There can be little question that our 
first ideas of extension are derived from our own sentient 
organism, the consciousness of sensations in different parts 
of the body, distinct from, and out of each other, thus 
affording the knowledge of an extended sentient organiza- 
tion. The idea of externality, or outness, and extension, 
thus acquired, the transition is easy from the perception of 
our own bodies as possessing Ihesc qualities, to the cog- 
nizance of the same qualities in external objects. 



PERCEPTION BY THE SENSES. 81 

§ VI.-CREDIBILITY OF OUR SENSATIONS AND 
PERCEPTIONS. 

Denied by some. — There have always been those who 
were disposed to call in question the testimony of the senses. 
Such were the Eleatics and the Skeptics among the Greek 
philosophers, and there have not been wanting among the 
moderns minds of acuteness and ingenuity that have fol- 
lowed in the same path. While admitting the phe7iomena 
of sense, the appearance of things as being so and so, they 
have called in question the corresponding objective reality. 
Things appear to me to be thus and thus — such and such 
impressions are made on my senses— that I cannot deny ; 
but how do I know that the reality corresponds to my 
impressions, or, in fact, that there is any reality? How 
know we our senses to be reliable ? What evidence have 
we that they do not habitually deceive us ? 

Evidence demanded. — It were perhaps a sufficient answer 
to this question to reply, What evidence have we, or can we 
have, that they do deceive us ? In the absence of all evidence 
to the contrary, is it not more reasonable to suppose that 
our perceptions correspond to realities, than that they are 
without foundation, uncaused, or caused by something not 
at all answering to the apparent object of perceptidh ; more 
reasonable to suppose that there is a real table or book answer- 
ing to my perception of one, than that I have the perception 
while there is no such reality? It remains with those, then, 
who question and deny the validity of sense-perception, to 
show reasons for such denial. And this becomes the more 
imperative on them, inasmuch as they contradict the com- 
mon belief and universal opinion of mankind — nay, what, 
in spite of all their arguments, is still, by their own con- 
fession, their own practical conviction and belief. 

Evidence impossible. — But whence is this evidence to 
come ? Where is it to be sought ? How are we to prove 
that sense deceives us, except by arguments drawn from 
sense ? And if sense is not reliable in the first instance. 



82 PERCEPTION BY THE SENSES. 

why rely upon it in the second, to prove that it is not 
reliable? If the senses do habitually deceive us, manifestly 
it c<an never be shown that they do. And, even if thir, 
could be shown, it would be impossible to find any thing 
better to rely upon in their stead. Vie have these guides or 
none. We have these instruments of observation provided 
for the voyage of life. We may pronounce them worthless, 
and throw them into the sea, but wc cannot replace them. 

Inconsistent and contradictory Testimony of Sense. — 
But it may be replied that the testimony of sense is often 
inconsistent with itself, and contradictory of itself. What 
is sweet to one is sour and bitter to another. What seems a 
round tower in the distance becomes a square one as you 
approach ; and the straight stick that you hold in your hand 
appears crooked when thrust into the water. There is in 
reality, however, no contradiction or inconsistency in the 
cases supposed. The change of circumstances accounts in 
every instance for the change of appearance. In the case 
of the stick, for example, the different density of the water 
accounts for the refraction of the rays of light that pass 
through it, and this accounts for the crooked appearance of 
the stick that is only partly submerged. So in the other 
cases ; it is no contradiction that an object which appears 
round at a distance of ten miles, should appear square at 
the distance of so many rods — or that the taste of two 
persons should not agree as to the savor of a given object. 

Deceptions of Sense. — It may be further objected that 
in certain states of the physical organism, sensations are 
experienced which seem to be of external origin, but are 
really produced by internal changes ; and tliat in such 
cases we have the same perceptions, sec the same objects, 
hear the same things, that we should if there were a 
corresponding external reality, while nevertheless there is 
no such reality, and it can be proved that there is none. If 
this may happen in some cases, why not in others, or in all? 

Reply. — I reply, the simple fact, that in the case supposed 



PERCEPTIOK BY THE SEKSES. 83 

the deception can be detected and proved, shows the 
difference between that and ordinary perception. If the 
senses were not habitually reliable, we conld not detect the 
mistake in this particular instance. If all coin were 
counterfeit, how could we detect a counterfeit coin ?. We 
know, moreover, how to account for the mistake in the case 
before us. It occurs, by the supposition, only in a certain 
state of the organism, that is, only in a diseased, abnormal 
condition of the system. The exception proves the rule. 

Distinction of direct and indirect Testimony. — A dis- 
tinction is to be made, in the discussion of this subject, 
between the direct and indirect testimony of the senses, 
between that which is strictly and properly perception, and 
that which is only conception, judgment, inference. What 
I really perceive, for example, in the case of the distant 
tower, or the stick partially under water, is only a given 
appearance ; I infer from that appearance that the tower is 
round and the stick crooked, and in that inference I am mis- 
taken. My judgment is at fault here, and not my senses. 
They testified truly and correctly. They gave the real 
appearance, and this was all they could give, all they ever 
give. This has been well stated by Dr. Eeid, and, long 
before him, the same ground was taken, in reply to the 
same objection, by Aristotle and also by Epicurus. 

Direct Perception gives what. — In regard to direct and 
immediate perception, the case is different. Here the 
testimony is positive to the existence of the object. When 
something resists my voluntary movement, I am conscious 
of that resistance, conscious of something external and 
resisting. I cannot deny the fact of that consciousness. I 
may, however, deny the correctness, the truthfulness of 
what consciousness affirms. To do this, however, is to put 
an end to all reasoning on the subject, for, when we give 
up consciousness as no longer reliable, there is nothing left 
to fall back upon. If any one chooses to leap from this 
precipice, we can only saiyji7iis. 



84 PERCEPTION BY THE SENSES. 

§ VII.-HISTORICAL SKETCH. 

I. Of Different Divisions of the Qualities of 
Bodies. 

The Greek Philosophers. — The distinction of the qualities 
of bodies into two chisses, diffcrini^ in iniportiint respects, 
is by no means a modern one. It was recognized by some 
of the earlier Greek pliilosophcrt., who held that the sweet, 
bitter, hot, cold, etc., are ratlier affections of our own senses 
than proper qualities of matter, having independent exist- 
enc3. Subsequently the view was adopted by Protagoras, 
and by the Cyrenean and Epicurean schools. Plato held 
it, and especially and very fully, Aristotle, who calls the 
qualities to which we have referred, and which are usually 
denominated secondary, affective qualities, because they 
have the power of affecting the senses, while the qualities 
now usually termed primary, as extension, figure, motion, 
number, etc., he regards as not properly objects of sense. The 
former class he calls proper sensibles, the latter, common. 

The Schoolmen. — The schoolmen made much of this dis- 
tinction, and held, with Aristotle, that the qualities now 
called primary, require, for their cognition, other faculties 
than those of sense. 

Doctrine of Galileo. — Galileo points out the true ground 
and philosophy of this distinction, and also gives the name 
primary to the class referred to, viz., ihose qualities which 
are necessary to our conception of body, as for example, 
figure, size, place, etc., while, on the contrary, colors, tastes, 
etc., are not inherent in bodies, but only in us, and we can 
conceive of body without them. The former are real 
qualities of bodies, while the latter are only conceptions 
which give us no real knowlcd.<i:e of any thing external, 
but only of the affections of our own minds. 

The Moderns. — Descartes and Locke merely adopted 
these distinctions as they found them, without essential 
modification. So also did Reid^nd iS'/e?rfl'77, although both 



PERCEPTION BY THE SENSES. 85 

included among the primary qualities some which are 
properly secondary, as roughness, smootlmess, hardness, 
softness. Indeed Stewart restricted the primary qualities 
to those and such as those just named. 

Hamilton. — No writer has so fully elaborated this matter 
as Sir William Hamilton, to whom we are indebted mainly 
for the historical facts now stated, and whose dissertations 
are and must ever remain an invaluable thesaurus on the 
philosophy of perception. So complete and elaborate is 
his classification of the qualities of matter, that I shall be 
pardoned for giving a synopsis of its principal points in 
this connection. 

Hamilton's Scheme — General Divisions. — He divides the 
qualities of bodies into three classes, which he calls 
primary, secundo-primary, and secondary. The primary 
are thought as essential to the very notion of matter, and 
may be deduced a priori, the bare notion of matter being 
given ; while the secundo-primary and the secondary, being 
accidental and contingent, must be deduced a posteriori, 
learned by experience. His deduction of the primary 
qualities is as follows : 

Primary Qualities. — We can conceive of body only as, 
I. Occupying space ; II. Contained in space. Space is a 
necessary form of thought, but we are not obliged to con- 
ceive of space as occupied, that is, to conceive of matter. 
When conceived it must be under the conditions now 
named. 

I. The property of occupying space is Simple Solidity, 
which implies, a. Trinal extension, or length, breadth, and 
thickness ; h. Impenetrability, or the projDcrty of not 
being reduced to non-extension. Trinal extension involves, 
1. Number, or Divisibility; 2. Size, including Density; 3. 
Shape. 

II. The attribute of being contained in space, affords 
the notion, 1. Of Mobility ; 2. Of Position. 

The essential and necessary constituents then of our 



8i5 PEKCEPTION BY THE SENSES. 

notion of matter are, 1. Extension (comprising under it, 2. 
Divisibility ; 3. Size; 4. Density ; 5. Figure); 6. Ultimate 
Incompressibility ; 7. Mobility; 8. Situation. These are 
the primary qualities, products, in a sort, of the under- 
standing, developing themselves with rigid necessity out of 
the given notion of substance occupying space. 

Secundo-Primary Qualities. — The secundo-primary are 
contingent modifications of the primary, all have relation 
to space, and motion in space, all are contained tinder the 
category of resistance, or pressure, all are learned or included 
as results of experience, all have both an objective and sub- 
jective phase, being at once qualities of matter, and also 
affections of our senses. 

Considered as to the sources of resistance, there is, I. That 
of Co-attraction, under the forms of a, Gravity, h. Cohesion ; 
II. That of Repulsion ; III. Inertia; all of Avhicli are capable 
of minute subdivision. Thus from cohesion follow the hard 
and soft, firm and fluid, tough and brittle, rigid and flexible, 
rough and smooth, etc., etc. From repulsion arc derived 
compressible and incompressible, resilient and irresilient. 

Secondary Qualities. — The secondary quahtics are, as 
apprehended by us, not properly attributes of body at all, 
but only affections of our nervous organism. They belong 
to bodies only so far as these are furnished with the power 
of exciting our nervous organism to the specific action 
thus designated. To this class belong color, sound, flavor, 
savor, tactile sensation, feeling of heat, electricity, etc. 
Such also are titillation, sneezing, shuddering and the 
various sensations, pleasurable or painful, resulting from 
the action of external stmmli. 

These Classes further distinguished.— Of the qualities 
thus derived, the primary are known immediately in them- 
selves, the secondary only medintoly in their effects on lis, 
the secundo-primary both immediately in themselves, and 
mediately in their effects on us. The primary are qualities 
of body in relation to body simply, and to our organism 



PERCEPTIOIf BY THE SENSES. 87 

as such ; the secundo-priraary are qualities of body in rela- 
tion to our organism, not as body in general, but as body 
of a particular sort, viz.: propelling, resisting, cohesive; 
the secondary are qualities of body in relation to our 
organism as excitable and sentient. The primary may be 
roundly characterized as mathematical, the secundo- 
primary as mechanical, the secondary as physiological. 

Reasons for retaining the twofold Bivision. — Such, in 
brief outline, are the principal points of Hamilton's classifi- 
cation. While following in the main the distinctions here 
indicated, I have preferred to retain the old division into 
primary and secondary, as at once more simple, and suffi- 
ciently accurate, merely dividing the secondary into two 
classes, the mechanical (secundo-primary of Hamilton), and 
physiological. We are thus enabled, not merely ^o retain 
a division and nomenclature which have antiquity and au- 
thority in their favor, and are well-nigh universally received, 
but we avoid the almost barbarous terminology of Sir Wil- 
liam's classification — while, at the same time, we indicate 
with sufficient precision the important distinction between 
the so-called secundo-primary and secondary qualities. 

II. Or DiFFEEENT Theories of Perception. 

Realists and Idealists. — There are two leading theories, 
quite distinct from each other, which have widely prevailed, 
and divided the thinking world, as to the philosophy of per- 
ception. The one maintains that in perception we have 
direct cognizance of a real external world. This is the view 
taken in the preceding pages, and now generally held by 
psychologists in this country, and to some extent in Europe. 
But for a long period, the prevalent, and in fact, until the 
time of Eeid in Scotland, and Kant in Germany, the almost 
universally-received opinion was the reverse of this — that 
in perception, as in any and all other mental acts, the mind 
is conscious only of its own ideas, cognizant of itself and 
its own states only, incapable, in fact, of knowing any 



88 PERCEPTION BY THE SENSES. 

thing external to itself. Those who hold the former view- 
are termed Realists, the latter Idealists. 

Further division of the latter.— The latter, however, are 
of two classes. The Absolute Idealists hold that the notion 
we have of external things is purely subjective, having no 
external counterpart, no corresponding outward reality. In 
distinction from this the greater part maintain that while 
we are cognizant, directly and strictly, of nothing beyond 
our own minds, nevertheless there is an external reality 
corresponding to the idea in our minds, and which that 
idea represents. Hence they have been designated Repre- 
sentative Idealists, or, as Sir William Hamilton terms them, 
Cosmothetic Idealists. 

Further Distinction. — Of these latter, again, some hold 
the idea which we have of an external world to be merely 
a state or modification of the mind itself ; others regard it 
as a sort of intermediate connecting link between mind and 
matter. The former may be called egoistic, and the latter 
non-egoistic. 

Summary of Classes.- -We have then these three great 
classes— the Natural Realists, the Absolute Idealists, and 
the Representative Idealists comprising the Egoistic and 
Non-Egoistic divisions. 

Distinguished Writers of the different Classes. — On the 
roll of absolute idealism are names of no small distinction: 
Berkley and Hume, in England, Fichte and Hegel, in Ger- 
many, are of the number : while among the representative 
idealists one finds Descartes, Arnauld, Malebranche, Leib- 
nitz, Locke, in fine, the greater number of philosophic 
writers from Descartes onward to the time of Reid. Sub- 
sequently even; we find a writer of no less repute than Dr. 
Brown assuming, as the basis of his philosophy of percep- 
tion, the exploded theory of representative idealism, under 
the egoistic form. Of natural realists since the time of 
Reid, Sir W. Hamilton is the most distinguished. 

Origin of Representative Idealism. — The docfrine of 



PEKCEPTIOH BY THE SENSES. 89 

representative perception doubtless originated in the diffi- 
culty of conceiving liow a purely spiritual existence, the 
human mind, can, by any possibility, take cognizance of, or 
be affected by, a purely material substance, the external 
world. The soul seated in its presence-chamber, the brain, 
can cognize nothing beyond and without, for nothing can 
act except where it is present. It must be, then, said tlie 
philosophers, that in order to the mind's perceiving any 
thing of that which lies beyond and without its own imme- 
diate locality, there must come to the mind from that outer 
world certain little images bearing some resemblance to the 
things without, and representing to the soul that external 
world. These images — more refined than matter, less 
spiritual than mind itself, of an intermediate nature 
between the two— they termed ideas. 

Tendency of Representative to Absolute Idealism. — It is 
easy to see how such a doctrine would lead almost inevi- 
tably to absolute idealism. If we do not in perception take 
cognizance directly of matter external, but only of certain 
images or ideas in our own minds, then how do we know 
that these images correctly represent the external reality, 
which we have never cognized, and never shall ? How do 
we know, in fact, that there is any such external reality ? 
What evidence have we, in a word, of the existence of any 
thing beyond and without our own minds ? This was the 
actual result to which Berkley and Hume drove the then 
prevalent philosophy of Europe, as to a legitimate and 
inevitable result. 

Relation of Dr. Reid to this Controversy. — To Dr. Reid 
belongs the credit of rescuing philosophy from this danger- 
ous extreme, by showing the utter falsity of the ideal 
theory. He took the ground that the existence of any such 
representative images in the mind is wholly without proof, 
nay more, is inconceivable ; that while we can conceive of 
an image of form or figure, we cannot conceive of an image 
of sound, or of taste or smell. The hypothesis is wholly 



90 PERCEPTION BY THE SENSES. 

without foundation. But even if it were conceivable and 
established by sufficient evidence, still it would explain 
nothing as to the manner in which the mind perceives 
external objects. It relieves no difficulty. If the repre- 
sentative image be itself material, how can the mind take 
cognizance of it ? If not material, how can it represent 
matter, and how can the mind know that it does represent 
correctly the external object ? 

State of the Matter since Reid. — Since the time of Dr. 
Reid, this theory of representative perception, at least in 
this non-egoistic form, has been for the most part aban- 
doned, and philosophers have been content to take the 
ground indicated by consciousness, and the common sense 
of mankind, that in perception we take direct cognizance 
of the external object. 

Position of Hamilton. — It remained for Sir W. Hamilton 
to complete the work which Dr. Reid began, by showing 
that the representative theory, in its finer or egoistic form, 
as held by Dr. Brown and others, is equally untenable or 
unsound ; that it makes little difference whether we regard 
the image or idea, which wc take to represent the external 
object, as something distinct from the mind itself, or 
whether we view it as a mere modification or state of the 
mind, so long as we make any thing of the sort the direct 
object of perception instead of the real external thing. 
Idealism is the result in either case, and philosophical 
skepticism the goal. In jilace of any and all such views, 
Hamilton maintains, with great power and earnestness, the 
doctrine of natural realism — that in perception wo are 
cognizant immediately and directly of the external object. 

As no other writer has so fully elaborated this department 
of science, it may be of service to present in this connec- 
tion the chief points of his theory. 

Chief Points of Hamilton's Theory of Perception. — All 
perception is immediate cognition ; wc perceive only what 
we apprehend as now and here existent ; and hence what 



PERCEPTION BY THE SEKSES. 91 

we perceive is either in our own organism, viewed as 
material, extended, etc., or else is in immediate correlation 
to it. The organism is, in perception, viewed as not-me ; 
in sensation, as of the me. 

What is given in Perception proper. — What we appre- 
hend in perception proper is : 1. The primary qualities of 
body as pertaining to our own organism ; 2. The secundo- 
primary qualities of bodies in correlation to it. (See 
Hamilton's division of qualities of bodies, as above.) 

Primary Qualities of external Objects, how known. — The 
primary qualities of things external to our organism we do 
not perceive immediately, but only infer, from the effects 
produced on us by them. Neither in perception nor sensa- 
tion do we apprehend immediately, or in itself, the external 
cause of our affection or sensation. That is always unknown 
to consciousness, known only by inference or conjecture. 

External Existence, how learned. — The existence of the 
world without is apprehended not in a perception of the 
jn'imary qualities of things external, but of the secundo- 
primary — i. e., in the consciousness that our movements are 
resisted by something external to our organism. This 
involves the consciousness of soniething external, resisting. 
The two things are conjunctly apprehended. 

This presupposes what. — This experience presupposes the 
notion of space, and motion in space. These are inherent, 
instinctive native elements of thought, and it is idle to 
inquire how we come by them. Every perception of sensa- 
tions out of, and distinct from, other sensations gives occa- 
sion for conceiving the idea of space. Outness involves it. 

Points of Difference between this Theory and Eeid's. — 
The system, as thus stated, differs in some respects materi- 
ally from the doctrine of perception advanced by Dr. Reid, 
and generally adopted since his time by the English and 
Scotch philosophers. According to Hamilton, perception 
is not, as held by Reid and others, the conception of an 
object suggested by sensation, but the direct cognition of 



92 PERCEPTION BY THE SENSES. 

something. We do not merely co)iceive of the object as 
existing, and believe it to exist, we k7ww it and perceive it 
to exist. Nor does sensation precede, and perception fol- 
low, as generally stated, but the two are, in time, conjunct, 
coexistent. Nor do we perceive the secondary qualities of 
bodies, as such, but only i?ifer them from our sensations. 
Neither do we perceive distant objects through a medium, 
as usually held, but what we perceive is either the organ- 
ism itself, as affected thus and thus, or what is directly in 
contact with it, as affecting and resisting it. Extension 
and externality, again, are not first learned by toiic/t, as 
Reid holds, and most subsequent writers, both English and 
American, but in other ways; the former, by the percep- 
tion of the primary qualities of our own organism, as the 
seat of sensations distinct from other sensations elsewhere 
localized ; the latter, by the resistance which we experience 
to our own locomotive force. Finally, sensation proper is 
not, as with Reid and others, an affection purely of the mind, 
but of mind and body as complex. Its subject is as much 
one as the other. 



I 



INTELLECTUAL FACULTIES, 



■^'^> 



PART SECOND 
THE REPRESENTATIVE POWER, 



THE REPRESENTATIVE POWER 



GENERAL OBSERVATIONS. 

Nature of this Power — Its various Forms. — It is in the 

mind's power to conceive or represent to itself an object not 
at the time present to the senses. This may take place in 
several forms. There may be the simple reproduction in 
thought of the absent object of sense. There may be, along 
with the reproduction or recurrence of the object, the 
recognition of it as a former object of sensation or percep- 
tion. There may be the reproduction of the object not as 
it is, or was, when formerly perceived, but with variations, 
the different elements arranged and combined not accord- 
ing to the actual and original, but according to the mind's 
own ideals, and at its will. This latter form of conception 
is what is usually termed imagination — while the general 
term memory, as ordinarily employed, is made to include 
the two former. While using the term in this general 
sense, we may properly distinguish, however, between 
mental reproduction, and mental recognition, the latter 
being strictly the office of memory. 

All these are but so many forms of the representative 
power. We may designate them respectively as the repro- 
ductive, recognitive, and creative faculties. The mind's 
activity is essentially the same under each of these forms. 
The object is not given but thought, not presented to sense, 
but represented to the mind. The process is reflective rather 



96 MEMORY. 

than intuitive. It is a matter of understand'nuj rather than 
of sense or of reason. It is a conception, not a perception 
or an intuition, and it is a simple conception of the object 
as it is or is conceu'cd to be, in itself considered, and not 
in relation to other objects. 



CHAPTEB I. 

MEMORY. 
§ I.-MENTAL REPRODUCTION. 

I. Nature of the Process. 

General Character. — As now defined, this is that form of 
mental activity in which the mind's former perceptions and 
sensations are reproduced in thought. The external objects 
are no longer present — the original sensations and percep- 
tions have vanished — but by the mind's own power arc 
reproduced to tliought, giving, as it were, a representation 
or image of the original. 

Example. — Suppose, for instance, that I have seen Stras- 
burg minster, or the cathedral of Milan. Months, perhaps 
years pass away. By-and-by, in some other and remote 
part of the world, something reminds me of that splendid 
structure ; I see again its imposing front, its lofty tov;ers, 
its airy pinnacles and turrets. The solemn pile rises com- 
plete, as by magic, to the mind's eye, and, regardless of 
time or distance, the faculty of simple conception repro- 
duces tlie object as it is. 

Conceptions of Sound. — In like manner I form a concep- 
tion, more or less distinct, of sounds once heard. The 
chanting of the evening service in the Church of the 
Madeleine at Paris, and the prolonged note of a shepherd's 
liorn among tlie Alps, are instances of musical sound that 
frequently recur with startling distinctness to the mind. 



MEMORY. 97 

The same is to some extent true of the sensations and per- 
ceptions derived from the other senses. With more or less 
vividness the objects of all such sensations and perceptions 
are capable of being reproduced in conception. 

The Conceptions not of Necessity connected with the Re- 
collection of Self as the Percipient. — In these cases there 
may or may not be a connection of the object, as it lies be- 
fore our minds, with our own personal history as the former 
percipients of that object. The time, place, circumstance, 
of that perception may not be distinctly before us ; even 
the fact that we have ourselves seen", heard, felt, what we 
now conceive, may not, at the moment, be an object of 
thought. These are the elements of memory or mental 
recognition, and are certainly very likely to stand associated 
in our minds with the conception of the object itself. But 
not always nor of necessity is it so. There may be simple 
conception of the object, mental reproduction, where there 
is, for the time being, no recognition of any thing further. 
The Strasburg minster, the chanting of the choir, the note 
of the mountain horn, the snowy peak of Jungfrau, may 
stand out by themselves before the mind, abstracted from 
all thought of the time, the place, the circumstances in 
which they were originally perceived, or even from all 
thought of the fact that we have at some former time 
actually perceived these very objects. They may present 
themselves as pure conceptions. 

Conceptions vary in some Respects. — Our conceptions 
vary in respect to definiteness and clearness. The objects 
of some of the senses are more readily and also more dis- 
tinctly conceived than those of others. The sense of sight 
is peculiar in this respect. A visible object is more easily 
and more distinctly conceived than a particular sound or 
taste. The sense of hearing is, perhaps, next to that of sight 
in this respect ; while the sensations of taste and smell are 
so seldom the objects of distinct conception, that some have 
even denied the power of conceiving them. Dr. Wayland 
5 



98 MEMORY. 

maintains this view. That we do form conceptions more 
or less distinct of the objects both of taste and smell, as, 
e. g, of the taste of a melon, or the smell of an orange, 
hardly admits of question ; while, at the same time, it is 
doubtless true that we have less occasion to reproduce in 
thought the objects now referred to than those of sight 
and hearing, that they are recalled with less facility, and 
also with less distinctness. 

Stewart's Theory. — Dugald Stewart has ingeniously sug- 
gested that the reason why a sound or a taste is less readily 
conceived than an object of sight, may be that the former 
are single detached sensations, while visible objects are com- 
plex, presenting a series of connected points of observation, 
and our conception of them as a whole is the result of many 
single conceptions, a result to which the association of ideas 
largely contributes. We more readily conceive two things 
in connection than either of them separately. On the same 
principle a series of sounds in a strain of music is more 
readily conceived than a single detached note. 

Importance of this Power. — The value of this power to 
the mind is inestimable. Without it, the passing moment, 
the impression or sensation of the instant, would be the sum 
total of our intellectual life, of our conscious being. The 
horizon of our mental vision would extend no further than 
our immediate present perceptions. The past would be a 
blank as dark and uncertain even as the future. Conception 
lights up the otherwise dreary waste of past existence, and 
reproducing the former scenes and objects, gives us mental 
possession of all that we have been, as well as of the i)rescnt 
moment, and lays at our feet the objects of all former 
knowledge. The mind thus becomes in a measure inde- 
pendent of sense and the external world. What it has once 
seen, heard, felt, becomes its })ermanent acquisition, even 
when the original object of perception is for ever removed. 
I may have seen the grand and stately minster, or the 
snowy Alp but once in all my life, but ever after it dwells 



J 



MEMORY. 99 

among my conceptions, and in after years, on other con- 
tinents, and amid far other scenes, that vision of beauty and 
grandeur passes before me as an angelic vision ; that succes- 
sion of sweet sounds traverses again the silent chambers of 
the brain, with all the freshness of first reality. It is only a 
conception now, but who shall estimate the worth of that 
simple power of conception ? 

The Talent for Description as affected by this Power. — 
The following remarks of Mr. Stewart illustrate happily one 
of the many uses to which this power is subservient: 

" A talent for lively description, at least in the case of 
sensible objects, depends chiefly on the degree in which the 
describer possesses the power of conception. We may re- 
mark, even in common conversation, a striking difference 
among individuals in this respect. One man, in attempting 
to convey a notion of any object he has seen, seems to place 
it before him, and to paint from actual perception ; another, 
although not deficient in a ready elocution, finds himself, in 
such a situation, confused and embarrassed among a number 
of particulars imperfectly apprehended, which crowd into 
his mind without any just order and connection. Nor is it 
merely to the accuracy of our descriptions that this power 
is subservient ; it contributes, more than any thing else, to 
render them striking and expressive to others, by guiding 
lis to a selection of such circumstances as are most promi- 
nent and characteristic; insomuch that I think it may 
reasonably be doubted if a person would not write a happier 
description of an object from the conception than from the 
perception of it. It has often been remarked, that the per- 
fection of description does not consist in a minute specifica- 
tion of circumstances, but in a judicious selection of them, 
and that the best rule for making the selection is to attend 
to the particulars that make the deepest impression on our 
own minds. When the object is actually before us, it is 
extremely difficult to compare the impressions which differ- 
ent circumstances produce ; and the very thought of writing 



100 MEMORY. 

a description, would prevent the impressions which would 
otherwise take place. Wlien we afterward conceive the ob- 
ject, the representation of it we form to ourselves, however 
lively, is merely an outline, and is made up of those circum- 
stances which really struck us most at the moment, while 
others of less importance are obliterated." 

Conceptions often Complex.— It is to be further remarked 
respecting the power now under consideration, that the no- 
tion, or conception which we form of an object, by means 
of this faculty, is frequently complex. The particular per- 
ceptions and sensations formerly experienced, and now rep- 
resented, are combined, forming thus a notion of the object 
as a whole. The figure, magnitude, color, and various other 
properties, of any object, as, e. (j.y a table, are objects each of 
distinct and separate cognition, and as such are mentally 
reproduced, distinctly, and separately; but when thus re- 
produced, are combined to form the complete conception of 
the table, as it lies in my mind. The notion or conception 
of the object as a whole being thus once formed, any single 
perception as, e. g., of color, figure, etc., is afterward suf- 
ficient to recall and represent the whole. 

Often passes for Perception. — It was remarked, in treat- 
ing of perception, that very much which passes under that 
name is in reality only conception. I hear, for example, 
a carriage passing in the street. All that I really per- 
ceive is the sound ; but that single perception recalls at 
once the various perceptions that have formerly been asso- 
ciated with it, and so there is at once reproduced in my 
mind the conception of the passing carriage. Our convic- 
tion of the existence and reality of the object thus con- 
ceived, is hardly inferior to that produced by actual and 
complete perception. 

Correctness of our Conceptions. — In general it may be 
remarked, that our conceptions are more or loss adequate 
and correct representations of the objects to which they 
relate, according as they combine the reports of more or 



MEMORY. 101 

fewer different senses, respecting more or fewer different 
qualities, and as these reports are more or less clear and 
distinct. 

11. Laws of Mektal Eeproduction". 

Conceptions not uncaused. — It is evident that our concep- 
tions arise not uncaused and at hap-hazard, but according 
to some law. There is a method about the phenomena of 
mental reproduction. There is a reason why any particular 
scene or event of former experience, any perception or sen- 
sation, is brought again to mind, when it is, and as it is, 
rather than some other in its place. A careful observation 
and study of the laws which regulate in general the succes- 
sion of thought, will furnish the explanation and true phi- 
losophy of mental reproduction. 

Principle of Suggestion. — Every thought which passes 
through the mind is directly or indirectly connected with, 
and suggested by something which preceded ; and that 
something may be either a sensation, a perception, a concep- 
tion, or an emotion. The precedence may be either imme- 
diate or remote. Some connection there always is between 
any given thought or feeling at any moment before the 
mind, and some preceding thought or feeling, which gives 
rise to, occasions, suggests, the latter. These suggestions 
follow certain general rules or laws, which are usually called 
the laws of association. These laws, so called, are only the 
different circumstances under which the suggestions take 
place, and are termed laws only to indicate the regularity 
and uniformity with which, under given circumstances^ 
given thoughts and feelings are awakened in the mind. 

This is the Basis of Mental Reproduction.— It is to this 
general principle of suggestion or association that we are 
indebted for all mental reproduction. It is only as one idea 
or feeling is suggested by some other which has gone be- 
fore, and with which it is in some way, and for some reason, 
associated in our minds, that any former thought or sensation 



102 M i: M o R y . 

is recalled, that any object which we have perceived, or 
any scene through which we have jiassed, is mentally 
reproduced. It is thus that the siglut of an object brings to 
mind occurrences connected with it in our history, that the 
name recalls the thing, that the words of a language bring 
to mind the ideas which they denote, or the characters on 
the musical staff, the tones which they represent. 

Not a distinct Faculty.— It has been customary to speak 
of association of ideas as a distinct faculty of the mind. It 
is not properly so ranked. It is a law of the mind rather 
than a faculty of it — a rule or method of its action in certain 
cases ; and the particular power of mind to which this rule 
applies is that form of simple conception which we term 
mental reproduction. 

The Term Suggestion preferred by Brown. — In place of 
the term association, Dr. Brown would prefer the term sug- 
gestion as more correct. To speak of the association of 
ideas implies that they have previously coexisted in the 
mind, and that the one now recalls the other in consequence 
of that previous coexistence. That this is often the case is 
doubtless true, but it is also true that in many cases one 
idea suggests another Avith which it has not previously 
been associated in our minds. It is not necessary to the 
suggestion that there should be any prior association. An 
object seen /or the first time suggests many relative concep- 
tions. The sight of a giant suggests the idea of a friend of 
diminutive stature, not because the two ideas have pre- 
viously been associated, or the two objects have coexisted, 
either in perception or conception, but because it is a law or 
the mind lliat one conception shall suggest another, either 
as similar, or as opposite, or in some other way related to it. 
This may be as truly a law of the mind, independent of 
association, as that light falling on the retina shall produce 
vision. It may seem mysterious that this should be so. Is 
it not e((ua1ly mysterious that ideas which have formerly 
coexisted should recall each other? The real mystery is 



MEMORY. 103 

the recurrence in any mode, and from any source, of the 
idea, without the recurrence of the external producing 
cause. For these reasons. Dr. Brown prefers the term 
suggestion to association. 

The Term Conception preferable to either. — As regards 
the activity of the mind itself, in the process of mental 
reproduction, the terrfi conception seems to me to express 
more nearly the exact state of the case than either associa- 
tion or suggestion. An idea is suggested to the mind by 
some external object; the mind conceives the idea thus 
suggested. The flute which I perceive lying on the table 
in the room of my friend suggests at once to my mind the 
idea of that friend. The action of the mind in this case is 
simply an act of conception. All that the flute does — all 
that we mean when we say the flute suggests the idea of 
the friend — is simply to place the mind in such a state that 
the conception follows. Whether we speak then of the 
laws of association, laws of stiggestion, or laws of mental 
conception, is immaterial, provided we bear in mind the 
real nature of the process as now defined. 

Question Stated. — But what are the laws of association, 
or suggestion, so-called — in other words, of mental con- 
ception? Under what circumstances is a given conception 
awakened in the mind by some preceding conception or 
perception ? This is an important subject of inquiry, and 
one which has not escaped the attention of philosophers. 

Primary Laws. — It has been usual to enumerate as pri- 
mary laws of suggestion, the following : rescmUance, C07i- 
trast, contiguity in time or place; to which has sometimes 
been added caiise and effect. There can be little doubt 
that these are important laws of suggestion ; that a given 
object of thought is likely to suggest to the mind that 
which is like itself, that which is unlike, that which is con- 
nected with itself in time and place, that of which it is the 
cause or the effect. Whether these principles are exhaustive, 
and whether they may not be reduced to some one general 
principle comprehensive of them all, may admit of question. 



104 MEMORY. 

Law of Similars. — To begin witli resemhlance. It seems 
to be a law ui' our nature, that like ishall remind us of like. 
The mountain, the forest, the river, that I see in my morning 
walk to day, remmd me of similar objects that were familiar 
to my childhood. Nor is it necessary that the resemblance 
should be complete. A single point of similarity is sufficient 
to awaken the conception of objects the most remote, and, 
in other respects, dissimilar. I pass in the street a person 
with blue eyes, or dark hair, or having some i)eculiarity of 
expression in the couutonance, and am at once reminded of 
a very different person whom I knew years ago, or whom 1 
met perhaps in another land ; yet the two may be as unlike, 
except in the one point which attracts my attention, as any 
two persons in the world. An article of dress peculiar to 
the Elizabethan age or to the court of Louis XIV, reminds 
US of the lordly dames and courtiers, or gallant warriors 
of those periods. A single feature in the landscape, per- 
haps a single tree, or projecting crag, on the mountain 
side, brings before us the picture of a scene widely different 
in most respects, but presenting only this one point of 
resemblance to the scene before us. 

Not Confined to Objects of Sight— Nor is it the objects 
of sight alone that arc suggestive of similar objects. The 
other senses follow the same law. Sounds suggest similar 
sounds ; tastes, similar tastes ; and along with the sounds, 
tastes, etc., thus recalled, are awakened conceptions of many 
things having no resemblance to the suggesting object, but 
associated in our previous perceptions with the object 
suggested. A certain succession of musical sounds, for ex- 
ample, recalls to the Swiss his native valley, and the moun- 
tains that shut it in, and brings back to his mind the scenes 
of his childhood, and the peculiar customs of his fatherland, 
where he heard in former years that simple melody. With 
what a train of associations is a single name often fraught ; 
what power of magic lies often in a single word ! 

Illustrations of other Laws. — Of the other principles of 



M E M E Y . 105 

suggestion or association which have been named, it is not 
necessary to speak minutely. Their operation is obvious 
and indisputable. Illustrations will occur to every one. 
The palace of the king reminds us by contrast of the hovel 
of the peasant. The splendor of wealth and luxury sug- 
gests the wretchedness of poverty and want. The giant 
reminds us of the ^dwarf, and the dwarf of the giant. On 
the principle of contiguity in time and place, the sight of 
an object reminds us of events that have occurred in connec- 
tion with it; the name Napoleon suggests Waterloo, and 
Wellington, and the marshals of the em,pire ; St. Peter's 
and the Vatican suggest Eaphael and his Transfiguration ; 
a book, casually lying on my table, reminds me of the vol- 
ume that formerly stood by its side on the shelf, and so 
carries me back to other scenes, and other days. 

In like manner, if it be not indeed the operation of the 
same principle, cause suggests the effect, and effect its 
cause. The wound reminds me of the instrument, and the 
instrument awakens the unpleasant conception of the 
wound which it once inflicted. 

Why one Conception rather than another. — Inasmuch as 
any one conception may awaken in the mind a great variety 
of other conceptions — since a picture, for example, may 
recall the person whose likeness it is, or the artist who 
painted it, or the friend who possesses it, or the time and 
place in which it was sketched, or the room in which it 
formerly hung, or any circumstance or event connected 
with it — the question arises, why, in any given instance, is 
one of these conceptions awakened in the mind rather than 
any other in its stead ? It is evident that the action of the 
associating principle is not uniform, sometimes one concep- 
tion being awakened, sometimes another. 

Secondary Laws. — In answer to this. Dr. Brown has 
shown that the action of these general and primary laws of 
suggestion, now named, is modified by a variety of circum- 
stances, which may be called seco7idary laws of suggestion. 



106 M E M DRY. 

and which will account for the viiricty in question. These 
modifying circumstances are : 1. Continuance of attention. 
2. Vividness of feeling. 3. Frequency of repetition. 4. 
Lapse of time. 5. Exclusiveness of association. G. Origi- 
nal constitutional differences. 7. State of mind at the time. 
8. State of body. 9. Professional habits. Any one of these 
circumstances may so modify the action of the primary laws 
of suggestion, that one conception shall be awakened in the 
mind rather than another, by that which has preceded. 

Correctness of this View. — There can be little doubt as 
to the correctness of this view. The attention, for example, 
whicli a given object or event excites at the time of its oc- 
currence, and the strength and liveliness of feeling which it 
awakened in us, have very much to do, as every one knows, 
with our subsequent remembrance of that object or event. 
So also has the frequency with which the train of thought 
has been repeated — a fact illustrated in the process of com- 
mitting to memory. 

The more frequently two things come together before the 
mind, the more likely will it be, when one is again presented, 
to think of the other. In the process of learning a thing by 
rote, we repeat the lines over and over, until they become 
so associated, and linked together, that the suggestion of 
one recalls the whole. Frequently, however, we find it 
difficult to pass from one sentence to another, or from one 
stanza or paragraph to another, while we find no difficulty 
in completing the sentence or paragrai^h once commenced. 
The reason is, we have repeated each sentence or stanza by 
itself in the process of learning, and have not connected 
one with another. The last words of one sentence, and the 
first words of another, have not been repeatedly conjoined 
in the mind — have not frequently coexisted. 

Sometimes, however, a more than usual vividness of con- 
ception will make up for the want of this frequent co- 
existence. When, for any reason, as excited feeling, or 
extraordinary interest in what we perceive, we grasp with 



MEMORY. .107 

peculiar clearness and force the idea presented, this vivid- 
ness of mental conception will, of itself, insure the remem- 
brance of the object contemplated. A man, on trial for his 
life, will be likely to recollect the faces and tones of each 
of the different witnesses on the stand, and the different 
judges and advocates, even if he never sees them afterward. 

We all know, alfeo, that the lapse of time weakens the 
impression of any object or event upon the mind, and so 
lessens the probability of its recurrence to the thoughts. 
We more readily recall places and objects seen in a recent 
tour, than those seen a year ago. The exclusiveness of the 
connection is also an important circumstance. An air of 
music, which I have heard played or sung only on one oc- 
casion, and by one musician only, is much more likely, when 
heard again, to bring to mind the former player, than if it 
had also been associated with other occasions and other per- 
formers. Much depends, moreover, on native differences of 
temperament, on the habitual joyousness, or habitual gloom, 
which may pervade the spirits, on the lights and shadows 
which passing events may cast, in quick succession, on the 
mind, as good or bad news, the arrival of a friend, the fail- 
ure of an enterprise, a slight derangement of aiiy of the 
bodily functions, or even the state of the atmosphere. All 
these circumstances have much to do with the question, 
whether one conception or another shall be awakened in 
the mind by any object presented to its thoughts. 

These Laws distinguished as Objective and Subjective. — 
It will be observed that the primary laws of suggestion, 
so called, are such as arise from the relations which our 
thoughts sustain to each other, while the secondary are 
such as arise from the relations which they sustain to our- 
selves, the thinking subjects. Hence the former have been 
called objective, the latter, siibjective laws. 

Possibility of reducing the primary Laws to one com- 
prehensive Principle. — I have already suggested that pos- 
sibly the primary laws admit of being reduced to some one 



108. MEMORY. 

general and comprehensive principle. This is a point de- 
serving attention. Were we required to name some one 
principle which should comprehend these several specific 
laws of association, it would be that of the prior existence 
in the mind of the suggesting and the suggested idea. The 
two conceptions have, for some reason, and at some time, 
stood together before the mind, and hence the one recalls 
the other. It seems to he a general law of thought^ that 
whatever has been perceived or conceived in connection with 
some other object of perception or thought^ is aftenvard sug- 
gestive of that other. The relation may be that of part to 
whole, of resemblance, of contiguity, or contrast, or cause ; 
it may be a natural or an artificial relation; whatever it is 
that serves as the connecting link between one thought 
and another, as they come before the mind at first, that 
will also serve as the ground of subsequent connection, 
when either of these thoughts shall present itself again to 
the mind. The one will suggest the other. 

Application of this Principle to the several Laws of Sug- 
gestion.— AVliy is it, for example, that things contiguous in 
time and place suggest each other ? In consequence of that 
contiguity they w^ere viewed by the mind in connection with 
each other ; as, e. g,, the handle, and the door to which it 
belongs, the book, and its neighbor on the shelf. It is be- 
cause Napoleon and his marshals, Wellington and Waterloo, 
have been presented together to the thoughts, that one now 
recalls the other. For the same reason the light hair and 
blue eyes of the person passing in the street recall the 
friend of former years ; that peculiarity of hair and of eyes 
Jias been, in my mind, previously connected with the con- 
ception of my friend. So also a part suggests the wliole 
Avith which it has been ordinarily connected, as, for ex- 
ample, the crystal and the watch. 

Further Application of the same Principle.— On the 
same principle cause and effect are naturally suggestive. 
W^e have been accustomed to observe the elision of a spark 



MEMORY. 109 

in connection with the forcible collision of flint and steel, 
iind whenever we have observed the application of fire to 
gunpowder, certain consequences have uniformly attracted 
our attention ; hence the one of these things awakens im- 
mediately in our minds the conception of the other, with 
which it has previously coexisted. For the same reason 
the instrument suggests the idea of the wound, and the 
wound of the instrument. The sight of a rose, and the 
sensation of fragrance, have usually coexisted ; hence either 
recalls the other. 

The connection in this case is natural. Let us suppose 
a case in which it shall be arbitrary, or artificial. Suppose 
I happen to hold a rose in my hand, at the same momenta 
certain unusual noise is heard in the street, or at the mo- 
ment when an eclipse of the sun becomes visible; on seeing 
the rose the next day I am instantly reminded of the noise, 
or of the eclipse, that was connected with it in my previous 
perception. 

Application to the Law of Opposites. — On the same 
principle opposites also suggest each other. They sustain a 
certain relation to each other in our thoughts, and are in a 
sense necessary to each other in thought, as, e.g., white and 
black, crooked and straight, tall and short ; which are 
relative idiQii^, neither of which is complete by itself without 
the other ; the one the complement of the other ; each, so 
to speak, the extreme term of a comparison. As such they 
stand together before the mind, in its ordinary perceptions, 
and hence the one almost of necessity recalls the other. 

The same Principle suggested by Dr. Brown. — The pos- 
sibility of reducing the laws of association to one common 
principle, as now attempted, namely that of prior coexist- 
ence in the mind, has not altogether escaped the notice of 
philosophers. Dr. Brown, in more than one passage, ad- 
vances the idea, that on a sufficiently minute analysis "all 
suggestion may be found to depend on prior coexistence, 
or, at least, on such immediate proximity, as is itself, very 



110 MEMORY. 

probably, a modification of coexistence." In order to this 
nice reduction, liowcver, he adds, we must take into ac- 
count ''the influence of emotions, and other feelings that 
are very different fi-om ideas ; as when an analogous object 
suggests an analogous object by the influence of an emotion 
or sentiment, which each separately may have produced 
before, and which is therefore common to both." As illus- 
trative of this, he refers, among others, to cases of remote 
resemblance; as when, ''for examj^le, the whiteness of 
untrodden snow brings to our mind the innocence of an 
unpolluted heart; or a fine morning of spring, the cheerful 
freshness of youth." In such cases, he says, " though there 
may never have been in the mind any proximity of the very 
images compared, there may have been a proximity of each 
to an emotion of some sort, which, as common to both, 
might render each capable, indirectly, of suggesting the 
other. The same principle he applies to suggestion by 
contrast, as when the sight of a person with a remarkably 
long nose brings to mind some one whom we have seen 
with a nose as remarkable for brevity; the common feeling 
in the two cases being that of surprise or wonder at the 
peculiarity of this feature of the countenance. 

Theory of Mahan. — Mahan, in his Intellectual Philoso- 
phy, carries out the suggestion of Dr. Brown, and makes 
the emotion awakened in common by two or more objects, 
the sole law, or ground of association. One object recalls 
another only by means of the feeling or state of mind 
common to both. 

This View questionable. —That this is the philosophy of 
the suggesting principle in those cases in which two objects 
have not previously coexisted in the mind — that is, in 
cases of suggestion, and not of association properly — I am 
disposed to admit, but that it is the philosophy of associa- 
tion, strictly speaking, that it is the reason why objects 
which have been viewed together by the mind should after- 
ward recall each other, is to be questioned. It seems to be 



MEMORY. Ill 

an established law of mental action that objects once \iewed 
in connection by the mind, afterward retain that connection. 
This is a grand and simple law of thought. I doubt whether 
any explanation can make it more simple, whether any thing 
is gained by calling in the influence of emotion to account 
for it. The emotion may, or may not, be the cause why 
objects, once coexistent in the mind, recall each other. 
It is enough that the simple law of previous coexistence, 
as now stated, covers the whole ground, and accounts for 
all the phenomena of mental association. 

The same Rule given by Aristotle. — Long before the 
days of Brown and his successors, this same law had sug- 
gested itself to one of the closest thinkers, and most acute 
observers of mental phenomena., whom the world has ever 
seen, as a principle comprehensive of all the specific laws of 
association. Aristotle — as quoted by Hamilton — expresses 
the rule in the following terms : Thoughts, which have at 
any time, recent or remote, stood to each other in the relation 
of coexistence, or immediate consecution, do, when severally 
reproduced, tend to reproduce each other. Under this 
general law he includes the specific ones of similars, con- 
traries and coadjacents, as comprehending all the possible 
relations of things to each other. 

Further duestion. — View of Rosenkranz. — It may still 
be questioned whether the specific laws of association, as 
usually given, viz., resemblance, contrast, contiguity, and 
cause, are a complete and exhaustive list. Are there not 
relations of things to each other, and so relations of thought, 
which do not fall under any of the categories now named ? 
A distinguished psychologist of the Hegelian school, Rosen- 
kranz, denies even that there are any laws of association. 
Law is found, he says, where the manifoldness still evinces 
unity, to which the manifold and accidental are subject. 
But association is not subject to any such unity. It is a free 
process. There are indeed certain limitations or categories 
of thought, but these so-called laws of association are not to 



112 MEMORY. 

be confounded with those categories ; the}' are not exhaus- 
tive of them. Why not also introduce the law by wliich 
we pass from quality to quantity, being to appearance, the 
universal to the particular, the end to the means, etc., etc. ? 
In short, all metaphysical and logical categories lay claim 
to be included in the list of such laws. No one can calcu- 
late the possible connections of one conception with another. 
Each is, for us, the middle point of a universe from which 
we can go forth on all sides. What diverse trains of 
tliought, for example, may the Strasburg minster awaken 
in my mind: the material of which it is built, the architect, 
the middle ages, the gothic style, etc., etc. There is, in a 
word, no law of association. 

Objections to this View. — Such, in substance, is the view 
maintained by this able writer. We cannot altogether coin- 
cide with it. That the specific laAVS of Aristotle, Hume, 
and Brown, are not exhaustive, may very likely be true ; that 
there is no law, no unity to which this manifoldness of con- 
ception is subject, is yet to be shown. Take the very case 
supposed. The gothic minster of Strasburg reminds me 
of the gothic style of architecture. What is that but an 
instance under the law of similarity ? It reminds me of the 
middle ages. What is that but the operation of the law 
of contiguity in time ? It brings to mind the architect. 
What is that but the relation of cause to effect ? Or, if I 
think of the material of which the building is composed, 
the marble of this minster reminding me of the class, 
marble, does not that again fall under the relation of a part 
to the whole, which is comprehended under the general law 
of coadjacence, or contiguity in space ? So quality and 
quantity, matter and form, being and appearance, as parts of 
a comprehensive whole, recall each other. The instances 
given, then, so far from proving that there is no law of 
association, actually fall under the specific laws enumerated. 

The Law of Contiguity includes what. — It is contended 
that this gives a wider extension to the law of contiguity 



MEM OK Y. 113 

in time and space than properly belongs to it. I reply, jiot 
wider than is intended by those who make use of this 
expression. Aristotle, the earliest writer who attempts any 
classification of the laws of suggestion, distinctly includes 
under the law of coddjacence whatever stand as parts of the 
same whole, as, e. g., parts of the same building, traits of 
the same cliaracter, species of the same genus, the sign and 
the thing signified, different wholes of the same part, coitc- 
late terms, as the abstract and concrete, etc., etc. 

Reference to the Subjective Laws. — If it still is asked 
why does the minster of Strasburg, or any giyen object, 
suggest one of these seyeral conceptions, and not some other 
Id its place ? the reason for this must doubtless be sought 
in the state of the mind at the time ; in other words, in those 
subjective or secondaiy laws of suggestion, of which we 
have already spoken, as given by Brown and others. Aris- 
totle has more concisely answered the question in the im- 
portant rule which he adds as supplementary of his general 
law; viz., that, of two thoughts, one tends to suggest the 
other, in proportion, 1. To its comparatiye importance ; 
2. Its comparative interest. For the first reason, the foot 
is more likely to suggest the head than the head the foot. 
For the second reason, the dog is more likely to suggest the 
master than the master the dog. 

§ II -MENTAL RECOGNITION, AS DISTINGUISHED 
FROM MENTAL REPRODUCTION- 

I. Gexeral Chaeactee of this Peocess. 

The Faculty as thus far Considered. — Thus far we have 
considered the faculty of mental representation only under 
one of its forms, viz., as reproductive. By the operation of 
this power, the intuitions of sense are replaced before the 
mind, in the absence of the original objects; images, so to 
speak, of the former objects of perception are brought out 
from tlie dark back-ground of the past, and thrown in relief 



114 MEMORY. 

upon the mental canvas. Picture after picture thus comes 
up, and passes away. The mind has the i)o\ver of thus 
reproducing for itself, according to hiws of suggestion 
already considered, the objects of its former perception. 
This it is constantly doing. ]^o small part of our think- 
ing is the simple reproduction of what has been already, in 
sonic form, before the mind. 

An Additional Element. — The intuitions of sense, thus 
replaced in tlie absence of the external objects, present 
themselves to the mind as mere conceptions, involving no 
reference to ourselves as the perceiving subject, nor to the 
time, place, and circumstances of the original perception. 
But suppose now this latter element to be superadded to 
the former; tliat along with the conception or recalling 
of the object, there is also the conception of ourselves as 
perceiving, and of the circumstances under which it was 
perceived ; in a word, the recalling of the subjective along 
with the objective element of the original perception, and 
we have now that form of mental rei^resentation which we 
term recognitive, or mental recognition. 

The two Forms compared and distinguished. — The two 
taken together, the reproduction, and the recognition, con- 
stitute what is ordinarily called memory, which involves, 
when closely considered, not only the reproduction, in 
thought, of the former object of perception, but also the 
consciousness of having ourselves perceived the same. The 
conception is given as before, but it is no longer mere con- 
ception in the abstract, standing by itself ; it is connected 
now by links of time, place, and circumstance, with our 
own personal hislor}'. It is this st/bjertire element that 
constitutes the essential characteristic of memory proper, 
or mental recognition, as distinguished from mere con- 
ception, or mental reproduction. 

Specification of Time and Place. — It is not necessary 
tliat the specific time and place when and wliere we pre- 
viously perceived the object, or received the impression, 



MEMORY. f 115 

should be recalled along with the object or impression ; this 
may or may not be. More frequently, perhaps, these do recur 
to the mind, and the object itself is recalled or suggested by 
means of these specific momenta; but this is not essential 
to the act of memory. It is enough that we recognize the 
representation or conception, now before the mind, as, in 
general, an object of former cognition, a previous posses- 
sion of the mind, and not a new acquisition. 

Not of Necessity Voluntary. — Nor is it necessary to the 
fact of memory, that this recurrence and recognition of 
former perceptions and sensations, as objects of thought, 
should be the result of special volition on our part. It 
may be quite involuntary. It may take place unbidden 
and unsought, the result of casual suggestion. 

Distinction of Terms. — Memory is usually distinguished 
from rememhrance, and also from recolledioyi. Memory 
is, more properly, the power or faculty, remembrance the 
exercise of that power in respect to particular objects and 
events. When this exercise is voluntary — when we set 
ourselves to recall what has nearly or quite escaped us, to 
re-collect, as it were, the scattered materials of our former 
consciousness — we designate this voluntary process by the 
term recollection. We recollect only what is at the moment 
out of mind, and what we wish to recall. 

. Possibility of Recalling. — But here the question arises, 
how it is possible, by a voluntary effort, to recall what is 
once gone from the mind. Does not the very fact of a 
volition imply that we have already in mind the thing 
willed and wished for ? How else could we will to recall 
it? This is a philosophical puzzle with which any one, who 
chooses, may amuse himself. I have forgotten, for instance, 
the name of a person : I seek to recall it ; to recall what ? 
you may ask. That name. What name? Now I do not 
know what name ; if I did, I should have no occasion to 
recall it. And yet, in another sense, I do know what it 
is that I have forgotten. I know that it is a name, and I 



116 MEMORY. 

know whose name it is; the name, viz., of this particular 
person. And this is all I need to know in order to have a 
distinct, definite object of volition before my mind. 

The Mode of Operation. — The process through which 
the mind passes in such a case, is, to dwell upon some 
circumstances not forgotten, that are intimately connected 
with the missing idea^ and through these, as so many con- 
necting links, to pass over, if possible, to the thing sought. 
I cannot, for example, recall the name, hut I remember 
the names of other persons of the same family, class, or 
profession,, or I remember that it begins with the letter B, 
and then think over all the names I know that begin with 
that letter ; and, in this way, seek to recall, by association, 
the name that has escaped. 

Memory not an Immediate Knowledge. — It has been held 
by some that memory gives us an immediate knowledge of 
the past. This is the view of Dr. Reid. If, by immediate 
knowledge, we mean knowledge of a thing as existing, and 
as it is in itself — nothing intervening between it as a present 
reality, and our direct cognizance of it — then not in this 
sense is memory an immediate knowledge; forajjast event 
is no longer existent, and cannot be known as such, or as 
it is in itself ; it no longer is, but only was. Ilcncc an imme- 
diate knowledge of it, is, as Sir William Hamilton affirms, 
a contradiction. Still, we may know the past as it was, not 
IcSj really and positively than we know the pretcnt as it is. 
I as really know that I sat at this table yesterday as I know 
that I sit here now. I am conscious of being here now. I. 
was conscious of being here then. That consciousness is 
not to be impeached in either case. If the senses deceived 
me yesterday, they may deceive me to-day. If consciousness 
testified falsely then, it may now. But if I w^as indeed here 
yesterday, and if I knew then that I was here, and that 
knowledge was certain and positive, then I know now that 
I Avas here yesterday, for memory recognizes what would 
otherwise be the mere conception of to-day, as identical 



J 



MEMORY. 117 

with the positive knowledge of yesterday. Memory may 
possibly be mistaken as to the so-called positive knowledge 
of yesterday ; and so sense may be mistaken as to the so- 
called positive knowledge of the present moment. 

Belief attending Memory. — The remarks of Dr. Reid 
on this point are worthy of note. " Memory is always ac- 
companied with the' belief of that which we remember, as 
perception is accompanied with the belief of that which we 
perceive, and consciousness with the belief of that whereof 
we are conscious. Perhaps in infancy, or in disorder of 
mind, things remembered may be confounded with those 
which are merely imagined ; but in mature years, and in a 
sound state of mind, every man feels that he must believe 
what he distinctly remembers, though he can give no other 
reason for his belief, but that he remembers the thing dis- 
tinctly ; whereas, when he merely imagines a thing ever so 
distinctly he has no belief of it upon that account. 

This belief, which we have from distinct memory, we ac- 
count real knowledge, no less certain than if it was grounded 
on demonstration; no man, in his wits, calls it in question, 
or will hear any argument against it. The testimony of 
witnesses in causes of life and death depends upon it, and 
all the knowledge of mankind of past events is built on 
this foundation. There are cases in which a man's memory 
is less distinct and determinate, and where he is ready to 
allow that it may have failed him ; but this does not in the 
least weaken its credit, when it is perfectly distinct." 

Importance of this Faculty. — The importance of mem- 
ory as a power of the mind, is shown by the simple fact, 
that, but for it, there could be no consciousness of continued 
existence, none of 'personal identity, for memory is our only 
voucher for the fact that we existed at all at any previous 
moment. Without this faculty, each separate instant of 
life would be a new existence, isolated, disconnected witli 
aught before or after ; nay, there would, in that case, 
scarcely be any consciousness of even the present existence. 



118^ MEMORY. 

for we are conscious only as we are cognizant of chanc/e, 
says Hamilton, and there is involved in it the idea of the 
latesi past along with the present. Memory, then, is essen- 
tial to all intelligent mental action, whether intellectual, 
sensational, or voluntary. The ancients seem to have been 
aware of this, Avhen they gave it the name iivTjfir) (from 
livTjfiof;, fivaofiai), appellations of the mi?id itself, as being, 
in fact, the chief characteristic faculty of the mind. 

II. What is implied in an Act of Memory. 

Several Conditions. — Every act of memory involves these 
several conditions : 1. Present existence. 2. Past existence. 

3. Mental activity at some moment of that past existence. 

4. The recurrence to the mind of something thus thought, 
perceived, or felt. 5. Its recognition as a past or former 
thought or impression, and that our own. These last, the 
recurrence and the recognition, are strictly the essential 
elements of memory, yet the others are implied in it. In 
order to my remembering, for example, an occurrence of 
yesterday, I must exist at the present time, else I cannot 
remember at the present time ; I must have existed yester- 
day, else there can be no memory of yesterday ; my mind 
must have been active then, else there will be nothing to 
remember ; the thoughts, perceptions, sensations, then oc- 
cupying the mind, must now recur, else it is the same as 
if they had never been ; they must recur, not as new 
thoughts and impressions, but as old ones, else I no longer 
remember, but only conceive or perceive. 

III. QuA*iiTiES of Memory. 

Distinctions of Stewart and Wayland. — It has been 
customary to designate certain qualities as essential to a 
good memory. Susceptibility, retentiveness, and readiness, 
are thus distinguished by Mr. Stewart ; the first denoting 
the facility with which the mind acquires ; the second, the 
permanence with which it retains ; and the third, tlie 



M E M li Y . 119 

quickness with which it recalls and applies its original 
acquisitions. And these qualities are rarely united, he 
adds, in the same person. The memory which is susceptible 
and ready, is not commonly very retentive. Dr. Wayland 
makes the same distinction. Some men, he says, retain 
their knowledge more perfectly than they recall it. Others 
have their knowledge always at command. Some men 
acquire with great rapidity, but soon forget what they 
have learned. Others acquire with difficulty, but retain 
tenaciously. 

Objections to this View. — Although supported by such 
authority, it admits of question whether this distinction is 
strictly valid. Facility of acquisition, the readiness with 
which the mind perceives truth, is hardly to be reckoned as 
an attribute of memory. It is a quality of mind, a quality 
possessed in diverse degrees by different persons, doubtless, 
but not a quality of mind in its distinctive capacity and 
office of rememhering. It is no part, psychologically con- 
sidered, of the function of mental reproduction. It is 
essential, indeed, to the act of memory that there should 
be something to remember, but the acquisition of the thing 
remembered, and the remembering, are two distinct and 
different mental acts ; nor is it of any consequence to the 
mind, in remembering, whether the original acquisition 
was made with more or less facility. Indeed, so far as that 
bears upon the case at all, facility of acquisition, as even 
these writers admit, is likely to be rather a hindrance than 
a help to subsequent remembrance, since what is most 
readily acquired is not most readily recalled. 

The Mind retentive in what Sense.— Nor is it altogether 
proper to speak of retentiveness as a quality of memory — a 
quality which may pertain to it in a greater or less degree 
in different cases. The truth is, all memory is retentive, 
or, more properly, retentiveness is itself memory. It is a 
quality of mind ; a power or faculty possessed in different 
degrees by different persons ; and the power which the mind 



120 M E M O E Y . 

possesses of retaining tlius, wholly, or in part, what passes 
before it, is the faculty of memory. But in what sense 
does the mind retain anything which has once occupied its 
thoughts? Not, of course, in the sense in which a hook 
retains the hat and coat that are hung upon it, ready to be 
taken down when wanted. We are not to conceive of the 
mind as a convenient receptacle, in which may be stowed 
away all manner of old thoughts, sensations, impressions, 
as old clothes are put by in a press, or guns in an armory. 
Not in any such sense is the mind retentive. What we 
mean, when we say the mind is retentive, is simply this, 
that it is in its power to repossess itself of what has once 
passed before it, to regain a thought or impression it has 
once had. And this is done by the operation of those laws 
of suggestion already considered. That, and that only is 
retained by the mind, which under the appropriate circum- 
stances is by the principle of suggestion recalled to the 
mind. We are not to distinguish, then, the power to re- 
tain and the power to recall, as two separate things ; nor, 
for the same reason, can we conceive of a memory that is 
other than retentive, or that is retentive but not ready. So 
far as these expressions denote any real distinction, it 
amounts simply to this, that some minds arc more reten- 
tive than others; in other words, more susceptible of the 
influence of the suggesting principle in recalling ideas that 
have once been before them. Such a difference nndoubt- 
edly exists. Some remember much more readily and ex- 
tensively than others. This may be owing, partly, to some 
difference of mental constitution and endowment ; but 
more frequently to differences of mental habit and culture. 
It is not necessary to refer again to the laws of mental re- 
production which have been already discussed. It is suffi- 
cient to say, that the more clearly any fact or truth is 
originally apprehended, and the more deeply it interests the 
mind, the more readily will it subsequently recur and the 
longer will it be retained. 



i 



MEMORY. 121 

IV. Memory ii^ Relation to In^tellectual Strei^gth. 

The common Opinion. — The question has arisen, how far 
the power of memory may be regarded as a test of intel- 
lectual ability. The opinion has been somewhat prevalent, 
that a more than usual development of this faculty is 
likely to be attended with a corresponding deficiency in 
some other mental power, and especially that it is incom- 
patible with a sound judgment. To this opinion I cannot 
subscribe. Doubtless it is true that many persons, deficient 
in the power of accurate discrimination, have possessed 
wonderful power of memory. The mind, in such cases, 
undisciplined, uncultivated, with little inventive and self- 
moving power, lies passive and open to the influence of 
every chance suggestion from without, as the lyre is put in 
vibration by the stray winds that sweep across its strings. 
Facts and incidents of no value, without number, and 
without order, are thrown into relief upon the confused 
background of the past, as sea- weed, sand, and shells are 
heaped by the unmeaning waves upon the shore. 

But if a weak mind may possess a good memory, it is 
equally true, that a strong and well disciplined mind is sel- 
dom deficient in it. Men of most active and commanding- 
intellect have been men also of tenacious and accurate 
memory. Napoleon was a remarkable instance of this. 
So also was the philosopher Leibnitz. While, then, we 
cannot regard the memory as a test of intellectual capacity, 
neither can it be considered incompatible with, or unfavor- 
able to, mental strength. On the contrary, we can hardly 
look for any considerable degree of mental vigor and power 
where this faculty is essentially deficient. 

Memory as affected by the Art of Printing. — It is re- 
marked by Miss Edgeworth, and the remark is noticed with 
approval by Dugald Stewart, that the invention of printing, 
by placing books within the reach of all classes of people, 
has lowered the vaMe of those extraordinary powers of 
6 



12'Z MEMORY. 

memory which some of the learned were accustomed to 
display in former times. A man Avho hud read, and who 
could repeat, a few manuscripts, was then not merely a re- 
markable, but a very useful man. It is quite otherwise 
now. There is no occasion now for any such exercise of 
memory. Hence instances of extraordinary memory are 
of unfrequent occurrence. 

Failure of Memory accompanies failure of mental Power. 
— A decline of mental vigor, whether produced by disease 
or age, is usually attended with loss* of memory to some 
extent. The first symptoms of this failure are usually for- 
getfulness of proper names and dates, and sometimes of 
words in general. A stroke of palsy frequently produces 
this result, and in such cases the name sometimes suggests 
the object, while the object no longer recalls the name. 
This is probably owing to the fact that the sign, being of 
less consequence than the thing signified, and making less 
impression on the mind, is more readily forgotten ; hence 
the name, if suggested, recalls the thing, while, at the same 
time, the thing may not recall the name. In general, we 
pass more readily from the sign to the thing signified, than 
the reverse, and for the reason now given. lSh\ Stewart 
remarks, that this loss of proper names incident to old men, 
is chiefly observable in men of science, or those much occu- 
pied with important affairs — a fact i-esulting, he thinks, 
partly from their habits of general tliought,and partly from 
their want of constant practice in that trivial conversation 
which is every moment recalling particulars to the mind. 

The Memory of the Aged. — In the principles which have 
been advanced, we find an explanation, I think, of some facts 
respecting memory,which every one has noticed, but of which 
the philosophy may not be at first sight apparent. Why \a it 
that aged people forget ? that, as we grow old, while per- 
haps other powTrs of the mind are still vigorous, the memory 
begins to lose its tenacity ? Not, I suspect, from any special 
change which the ])rain undergoes, imr why should such 



M E M E Y . 123 

chai\g"es affect tJiis faculty more than any other? I should 
seek the explanation in a failure of one or other of the con- 
ditions already mentioned as essential to a good memory ; 
either m the want of a sufficiently frequent coexistence of 
associated ideas, or else in the want of a sufficiently vivid 
conception of them when presented ; or, more likely, in 
both. And so th'e facts would indicate. Age involves 
usually the gradual failure and decay of the powers of per- 
ception ; the ear fails to report v/hat is said, the eye what 
is passing in space ; and as memory is dependent on prior 
perception, of course a diminished activity of the one brings 
about a diminished activity of the other. In proportion as 
this ensues, the mind's interest in passing events is likely 
to fail, for what is no longer clearly apprehended no longer 
awakens the same interest and attention as formerly. This 
directly affects the vividness of conception, and indirectly 
also reacts upon the frequency of coexistence, for what we 
do not clearly apprehend, nor feel much interest in, will 
not be likely often to recur to mind, nor shall we dwell 
upon it when presented. There is thus brought about, by 
the mutual action and reaction of the causes now specified, 
a failure more or less complete of the essential conditions 
of a retentive memory. 

The old man dwells accordingly much in the past. His 
life is behind him, and not in advance. He is unobservant 
of passing events, because he neither clearly apprehends 
them, now that his connection with the outer world is in a 
measure interrupted by the decay of sense, nor does he 
much care about them, for the same reason. His attention 
and interest, withdrawn in a manner from these, revert to the 
past. Those things he remembers, the sports and companions 
of his youth, and the stirring events of his best and most 
active years, for those things have been frequently associated 
in his mind, linked with each other, and with all the past of 
his life, and they have deeply interested him. Hence they 
are remembered while yesterday is forgotten. 



1 24 M E M It Y . 

Varieties of Memory. — AVhy is it, yon ask, that memory 
seems to select for itself now one and now another field of 
operation, one man remembering dates, another events or 
facts in history, another words or pages of a book, while in 
each case the memory of other things, of every thing that 
lies beyond or without the favorite range of topics, is defec- 
tive ? Manifestly for much the same reason already given. 
The mind has its favorite subjects of investigation and 
thought ; to these it frequently recurs, and dwells on them 
with interest ; there is, consequently, frequency of coexist- 
ence, and vividness of conception— the very conditions of 
retentiveness — while, at the same time, the mind being pre- 
occupied with the given subjects, and the attention and 
interest withdrawn from other things, the memory of other 
things is proportionably deficient. We remember, in other 
words, just those things best, in which we are most inter- 
ested, and with which we have most to do. 

This explains why we forget names so readily. We have 
more to do with, and are more interested in, persons, than 
their names ; the latter we have occasion to think of much 
less often than the former. The sign occurs less frequently 
than the thing signified. 

V. Cultivation of Memory. 

The principles already advanced furnish a clue to the 
proper and successful cultivation of the memory. Like all 
other powers, this may be cultivated, to a wonderful 
degree ; and, like all other powers, it gains strength by 
vsc, by exercise. The first and chief direction, then, if you 
would cultivate and strengthen this faculty of the mind, is, 
exercise it; train it to do its work — to do it ({uickly, easily, 
jiccurately, and well — as you train yourself to handle the 
keys of an instrument, or to add up a column of figures 
with promptness and accuracy. 

To be more specific. — As regards any particular thing 
which you wish to remembe**: 1. Grasp it fully, clearly, defi- 



MEMORY. 125 

nitely in the mind ; be sure you have it exactly — it, and not 
something like it or something about it. 2. Connect it 
with other things that are known ; suffer it to link itself 
with other ideas and impressions already in the mind, that 
you may have something to recall it by. 3. Frequently 
revert to it, until you are sure that it has become a perma- 
nent possession, and one which you can at any time recall 
by any one of numerous connecting links. In this way you 
secure the two conditions already specified as essential, viz., 
frequency of co-existence, and vividness of conception. 

Systems of Artificial Memory. — A thing is recalled by 
the suggestion of any coexisting thought or feeling. Ob- 
serving this, ingenious men have availed themselves of the 
principle of association to construct various mechanical or 
artificial systems of memory, usually termed mnemonics. 
The principle of the construction is this : should you see an 
elm or an oak-tree, or hear a particular tune whistled, at the 
same time that you were going through a demonstration in 
Euclid, you would be likely to think of the tree or the tune 
whenever next you had occasion to repeat that demonstra- 
tion. The sight of the diagram would recall the associated 
object. They stand together in your mind afterward. This 
we have already found to be the groundwork and chief ele- 
ment of all association of ideas and feelings, viz., prior co- 
existence in the mind. Suppose, now, you wish to fix in the 
mind the list of English kings. Make out a corresponding 
list of simple figures, or images of objects, giving each its 
invariable place in relation to the series : No. 1. a pump ; 
No. 2, a goose, etc., till you reach a sufficient number, say a 
hundred. These are committed to memory, fixed indelibly 
in the mind. You then associate with those figures your 
English kings ; Charles I. stands by the pump ; Charles 
II. pursues the goose; James hugs the bear, and so on. 
These things thus once firmly linked together, remain 
afterward associated, and the figure serves at once to recall 
the associate monarch and to fix his place in the series. 



1536 MEMORY. 

The same series of figures, of course, will serve for any 
number of different series of events, personages, etc., which 
are to be remembered. 

Utility questioned. — It may be seriously questioned, I 
think, wl)ether such systems arc of real value; whether 
they do not really weaken the memory and tlirow it into 
disuse, by departing from the ordinary laws and methods 
of suggestion, and substituting a purely artificial, arbitrary, 
and mechanical process; whether, moreover, they really 
accomplish what they propose ; whether, since tlie signs or 
figures have no natural relation to each other, and none to 
the things signified, but only the arbitrary relation im- 
posed by the system, it is not really as difficult to fix the con- 
nection of the two things in your mind, e. g.^ to remember 
that Charles the Second is represented by a dog or by a 
goose, as it would be simply, and in the natural way, to 
remember the things themselves without any sicch asso- 
ciation. 

Extent to which the Memory may be cultivated. — The 
extent to which the cultivation of the memory may be 
carried by due training and care, is a topic worthy of some 
attention. Men of reflection and thought, and generally 
men of studious habits, literary men and authors, do not, 
for the most part, rely so much upon the memory as men 
of a more practical cast and of business pursuits ; for this 
reason, viz., the want of due exercise, this faculty of their 
minds is not in the most favorable circumstances for 
development. Some striking exceptions, however, we shall 
have occasion presently to mention. 

It has been already remarked, that prior to the art of 
printing, the cultivation of the memory was an object of far 
greater importance, to those who were destined for public 
life, than it is in modern times, and conse(iuently instances 
of remarkable memory are much more frequently to be met 
with among the ancients than among (he men of our times. 
The same remark will apply to men of different pursuits in 



MEMORY. 127 

any age ; the more one has occasion to employ the memory, 
the more striking will be its development. 

Instances of Extraordinary Memory. — Cyrus, it is said, 
knew the name of every officer, Pliny has it of every soldier, 
that served under him. Themistocles could call by name 
each one of the twenty thousand citizens of Athens. Horten- 
sius could sit all day at an auction, and at evening give an 
account from memory of every thing sold, the purchaser, and 
the price. Muretus saw at Padua a young Oorsican, says 
Mr. Stewart, who could repeat, without hesitation, thirty-six 
thousand names in the order in which he heard them, and 
then reverse the order and proceed backward to the first. 

Dr. Wallis of Oxford, on one occasion, at night, in bed, 
proposed to himself a number of fifty-three places, and found 
its square root to twenty-seven places, and, without writing 
down numbers at all, dictated the result from memory twenty 
days afterward. It was not unusual with him to perform arith- 
metical operations in the dark, as the extraction of roots, e.g., 
to forty decimal places. The distinguished Euler, blind from 
early life, had always in his memory a table of the first six 
powers of all numbers, from one to one hundred. On one 
occasion two of his pupils, calculating a converging series, 
on reaching the seventeenth term, found their results differing 
by one unit at the fiftieth figure, and in order to decide which 
was correct, Euler went over the whole in his head, and his 
decision was found afterward to be correct. Pascal forgot 
nothing of what he had read, or heard, or seen. Menage, 
at seventy-seven, commemorates, in Latin verses, the favor 
of the gods, in restoring to him, after partial eclipse, the 
full powers of memory which had adorned his earlier life. 

The instances now given are mentioned by Mr. Stewart ; 
but perhaps the most remarkable instance of great memory 
in modern times, is the case of the celebrated Magliabecld, 
librarian of the Duke of Tuscany. He would inform any 
one who consulted him, not only who had directly treated of 
any particular subject, but who had indirectly touched upon 



138 M J-: M u Y . 

it in treating of other subjects, to tlie number of perhaps one 
hundred dififarent authors, giv.ing tlic name of the author, 
the name of the book, the words, often the page, whore they 
were to be found, and with the greatest exactness. 

To test his memory, a gentleman of Florence lent him 
at one time a manuscript he had prepared for the press, 
and, some time afterward, went to him with a soiTowful face, 
and pretended to have lost his manuscript by accident. The 
poor author seemed inconsolable, and begged Magliabeclii 
to recollect what he could, and write it down. He assured 
the unfortunate man that he would, and setting about it, 
wrote out the entire manuscript without missing a word. 
He had a local memory also, knew where every book stood. 
One day the Grand Duke sent for him to inquire if he 
could procure a book which was very scarce. " No, sir," 
answered Magliabechi ; " it is impossible : there is but one 
in the world; that is in the Grand Seignior's library at 
Constantinople, and is the seventh hook, on the seventh shelf, 
on the right hand as yoic go in." 

VI. Effects of Disease on the Memory. 

Forgetfulness of certain Objects. — Of the effect of cei'tain 
forms of disease, and also of age, in weakening the power 
of remembering names, I have already spoken. There arc 
other effects, occasionally produced by disease upon this 
faculty of the mind, which are not so readily explained. 
In some cases, a certain class of objects, or the knowledge 
of certain persons, or of a particular language or some part 
of a language, as substantives, c. g., seems to be lost to tlie 
mind ; in other cases, a certain portion of life is obliterated 
from the recollection. In cases of severe injury to the head, 
persons have forgotten some particular language ; otliers 
have been unable to recall afterward the names of the most 
common ol^jccts, while the memory was at no loss for adjec- 
tives. A surgeon mentioned by Dr. Abcrcrombie, so far re- 
covered from a fall as to give special directions respecting his 



MEMOEY. 129 

own treatment, yet, for several days, lost all idea of having 
either a wife or children. The case of Mr. Tennent, who 
on recovering frooi apparent death, lost all knowledge of 
his past life, and was obliged to commence again the study 
of the alphabet, until after considerable time his knowledge 
suddenly returned ,to him, is too well known to require 
minute description. 

Former Objects recalled. — In other instances, precisely 
the reverse occurs. Disease brings back to mind what had 
been long forgotten. Thus, persons in extreme sickness, or 
at the point of death, not unfrequently converse in languages 
which they have known only in youth. The case cited by 
Coleridge, and so frequently quoted, of the German servant 
girl, who in sickness was heard repeating passages of Greek, 
Latin, and Hebrew, which she had formerly heard her mas- 
ter repeat, as he walked in his study, but of whose meaning 
she had no idea, is in point in this connection. So also is 
the case of the Italian mentioned by Dr. Rush, who died in 
New York, and who, in the beginning of his sickness, spoke 
English, in the middle of it, French, but on the day of his 
death, nothing but Italian. A Lutheran clergyman of 
Philadelphia told Dr. Rush that it was not uncommon for 
the Germans and Swedes of his congregation, when near 
death, to speak and pray in their native languages, which 
some of them had probably not spoken for fifty years. These 
facts are sufficiently numerous to constitute a class by them- 
selves ; they seem to fall under some law of the physical 
system not yet clearly understood, and are, therefore, in the 
present state of our knowledge, incapable of explanation. 

Inference often drawn from these Facts. — Certain writers 
have inferred, from the recurrence of things long forgotten, 
as in the cases now cited, that all knowledge is indestruc- 
tible, and that all which is necessary to the entire repro- 
duction of the past life is the quickened activity of the 
mental powers, an effect which is produced in the delirium 
of disease. From this they have derived an argument for 
6^ 



130 M E M O R Y . 

future retribution. Coleridge has made such use of it, and 
has been followed by Ui)liam, and in part, at least, though 
with more caution, by Wayland. 

The true Inference.— It may be doubted, perhaps, whether 
the absolute indestructibility of all human knowledge is a 
legitimate inference from these facts. The most that can 
with certainty be concluded from them, is, not that all our 
past thoughts and consciousness mud or toill return, but 
that much of it may — perhaps all of it; and this is all we 
need to know in order to perceive th.e2)0ssibiUty of a future 
retribution. It is enough to know, that in the constitution 
of the mind means exist for recalling, in some way to us 
mysterious, and under certain conditions not by us fully 
understood, the objects of our former consciousness, in all 
the freshness and vividness of their past cognizance, long 
after they seem to have passed finally from the memory. 

Importance of a well-spent Life. — This simple fact, to- 
gether with the well-known tendency of the mind in ad- 
vancing age to revert to the scenes and incidents of early 
life, certainly presents in the clearest light the importance 
of a well-spent life, of a mind stored with such recollec- 
tions as shall cast a cheerful radiance over the past, and 
brighten the uncertain future in those hours of gloom and 
despondency when the shadows lengthen upon the path of 
earthly pilgrimage, and life is drawing to a close. If the 
thoughts and impressions of the passing moment are liable, 
by some casual association, by some mysterious law of our 
being, under conditions which may at any moment be ful- 
filled, to recur at any time to subsequent consciousness, 
with all the minuteness and power of present reality, it 
becomes us, as we regard our own highest interests, to 
guard well the avenues of thought and feeling against the 
first approach of that which we shall not be pleased to meet 
again, when it will not be in our power to escape its pres- 
ence, or avoid its recognition. 



MEMORY. 131 

VII. Influence of Memory on the Happiness of 
Life. 

The Pleasures of the Past thus retained.— Of the impor- 
tance of this faculty as related to other intellectual powers, 
I have already spoken. I refer now to its value as con- 
nected with human happiness, as the source of some of the 
purest pleasures of life. The present, however joyous, is 
fleeting and evanescent. Memory seizes the passing mo- 
ment, fixes it upon the canvas, and hangs the picture on 
the soul's inner chamber for her to look upon when she 
will. Thus, in an important sense, the former years are 
past, but not gone. We live them over again in memory. 

Instance of Niebuhr. — It is related of Oarsten Niebuhr, 
the Oriental traveller, that *' when old and blind, and so 
feeble that he had barely strength to be borne from his bed 
to his chair, the dim remembrance of his early adventures 
thronged before his memory with such vividness that they 
presented themselves as pictures upon his sightless eye-balls. 
As he lay upon his bed, pictures of the gorgeous Orient 
flashed upon his darkness as distinctly as though he had 
just closed his eyes to shut them out for an instant. The 
cloudless blue of the eastern heavens bending by day over 
the broad deserts, and studded by night with southern con- 
stellations, shone as vividly before him, after the lapse of 
half a century, as they did upon the first Chaldean shep- 
herds whom they won to the worship of the host of heaven; 
and he discoursed with strange and thrilling eloquence 
upon those scenes which thus, in the hours of stillness and 
darkness, were reflected upon liis inmost soul." 

The same Thing occurs often in old Age. — Something of 
this kind not unfrequently occurs in advanced life. Picture 
to yourself an old man of many winters. The world in which 
his young life began has grown old with him and around 
him, and its brightest colors have faded from his vision. The 
life and stir, the whirl and tumult of the busy world, the world 
of to-day and yesterday, move him not. He heeds but slightly 



132 MEMORY. 

the events of the passing hour. He lives in a past world. 
The scenes of his childhood, the sports and companions of 
his youth, the hills and streams, the briglit eyes and laughing 
faces on which his young eyes rested, in which his young 
heart delighted — these visit him again in his solitude, as he 
sits in his chair by the quiet tireside. He lives over again 
the past. He wanders again by the old hills, and over the 
old meadows. He feels again the vigor of youth. He leads 
again his bride to the altar. He brings home toys for his 
children, and enters again into their sports. And so the 
extremes of life meet. Age completes the circuit, and 
brings us back to the starting-point. We close where we 
began. Life is a magic ring. 

The recollection of past Sorrow not always painful. — But 
life is not all joyous. Mingled with the brighter hues of 
every life are also much sadness and sorrow, and these, too, 
are to be remembered. It might be supposed that, while 
memory, by recalling the pleasing incidents of the past, 
might contribute much to our happiness, she would add, in 
perhaps an equal degree, to our sorrow, by recalling much 
that is painful to the thoughts. Such, however, I am con- 
vinced, is not the fact. The benevolence of the Creator 
has ordered it otherwise. To no one, perhaps, is memory 
the source of greater pleasure, strange as it may seem, than 
to the mourner. The very circumstances that tend to renew 
our grief, aiul keep alive our sorrow, in case of some severe 
calamity or bereavement, are still cherished with a melan- 
choly satisfaction of which we would not be deprived. 
There is a luxury in our very grief, and in the remembrance 
of that for which we grieve. We would not forget what we 
have lost. Every recollection and association connected with 
it are sacred. Time assuages our grief, l^ut impairs not the 
strength and sacredness of those associations, nor diminishes 
the pleasure with which we recall the forms we shall see 
no more, and tlie scenes that are gone forever. Every 
memento of the departed one is sacred: the l)(.oks, the 



MEMORY. 133 

flowers, the favorite walks, the tree in whose shadow he 
was wont to recline, all have a significance and a value 
which the stricken heart only can interpret, and which 
memorj' only can afford. 

We recollect the Past as it was. — It is to be noticed, also, 
that, in such cases/ the picture which memory furnishes is 
a transcript of the past as it was ; the image is stereotyped 
and unchangeable. Other things change, we change ; that 
changes not. It has a fixed value. A mother, for instance, 
loses a child of three years. It ever remains to her a child 
of three years. She remembers it as it was. She grows 
old ; twenty summers and vv inters pass ; yet as often* as she 
visits the little mound, now scarce to be distinguished from 
the level surface, there comes to her recollection that little 
child as he was, when she hung, for the last time, over 
that pale, sweet face that she should see no more. She still 
thinks of him, dreams of him, as a child, for it is as such 
only that she remembers him. 

Blessed boon, that gives us just the past ; when all things 
change, fortunes vary, friends depart, the world grows 
unkind, and we grow old, the former things remain trea- 
sured in our memory, and we can stand as mourners at the 
grave of what we once were. 

VIII. Historical Sketch. — Different Theories of 
Memory. 

Ancient Theory. — The idea formerly, and almost uni- 
versally entertained respecting the modus operandi of the 
faculty we call memory, was, that in perception and the vari- 
ous operations of the senses, certain impressions are made 
on the sensorium — certain forms and types of things without, 
certain images of them — which remain when the external 
object is no longer present, and become imprinted thus on 
the mind. Such, certainly, was the doctrine of the earliest 
Greek commentators on Aristotle. Such, I must think, is 
substantiallv the doctrine of Aristotle himself. 



134 MEMORY. 

Theory of Aristotle. — His idea is, that memory, as well as 
imagi nation, primarily and directly, relatesonly to sensible ob- 
jects, and gives us only images of these objects, and even when 
it gives us strictly intellectual objects, gives us these only by 
images. One cannot think, he says, without images. Its 
source and origin, tlien, he concludes, is the sensibility, and so 
it pertains to «m;/2a^s, as well as men ; only to those, however, 
which have the perception of time, since memory is a modifi- 
cation of sensation or intellectual conception, under the 
condition of time past. Such being, in his view, the nature 
and source of memory, he goes on to ask how it is that only 
a modification (or state) of the mind being present, and the 
object itself absent, one recalls that absent object ? 

" Manifestly," he replies, " we must believe that the impres- 
sion which is produced, in consequence of the sensation, in 
the soul, and in that part of the body which perceives the 
sensation, is analogous to a species of painting, and that 
the perception of that impression constitutes precisely what 
we call memory. The movement which then takes place in 
the mind imprints there a sort of txjpe of the sensation anal- 
ogous to the seal which one im2)rints on wax luith a ring. 
Hence it is that those who by the violence of the impression, 
or by the ardor of age are in a great excitement (movement) 
have not the memory of things, as if the movement and seal 
had been applied to running water. In the case of others, 
liowcver, who are in a sort cold, as the plaster of old edifices, 
the very hardness of the part which receives the impression 
prevents the image from leaving the least trace. Hence it 
is that young children and old men have so little memory. 
It is the same with those who are too lively, and those who 
are too slow. Neither remember well. The one class arc 
too humid, the other too hard. The imago dwells not in 
the soul of the one, makes no impression whatever on that 
of the other. 

'• How is it now," he goes on to ask, " that this stamp, impres- 
sion, image, or painting, in us, a mere mode of the mind, can 



M E M O Tv Y . 135 

recall the absent object ?" His answer is, that the impres- 
sion or image is a copy of that object, while at the same 
time, it is, in itseK considered, only a modification of our 
mind, just as a painting is a mere picture, and yet a copy 
from nature. (Parva Naturalia : Memory, ch. 1.) 

Defence of Aristotle.— Sir W. Hamilton defends Aristotle 
against the strictures of Dr. Reid, upon this subject, by the 
supposition that he used these expressions not in a literal, 
but in a figurative or analogical sense. The figure, how- 
ever, if it be one, is very clearly and boldly sustained, and 
constitutes, in fact, the whole explanation given of the 
process of memory — the entire theory. Take aAvay these 
expressions, and you take away the whole substance of his 
argument, the whole solution of the problem. Sensation, 
or intellectual conception, produces an impression on the 
soul, and imprints there a type of itself, not unlike a 
painting or the stamp of a seal on wax, and the perception 
of this is memory. Such is in brief his theory. 

Theory of Hobbes. — ¥ot far remote from this was the 
theory of Hobbes, who regarded memory as a decaying or 
vanishing sense ; that of Hume, who represents it as merely 
a somewhat weaker impression than that which we desig- 
nate as perception ; and that of the celebrated Malebranche, 
who accounted for memory by making it to depend entirely 
on the changes which take place in the fibres of the brain. 
'' For even as the branches of a tree which have continued 
some time bent in a certain form, still preserve an aptitude 
to be bent anow after the same manner, so the fibres of the 
brain having once received certain impressions by the course 
of the animal spirits, and by the action of objects, retain a long 
time some facility to receive these same dispositions. Now 
the memory consists only in this faculty, since we think on the 
same things when the brain receives the same impressions." 

He goes on to explain how, as the brain undergoes a 
change in different periods of life, the mind is affected 
accordingly. ^^ The fibres of the brain in children are soft. 



136 MEMORY. 

flexible, and delicate ; a riper age dries, hardens, and 
strengthens them ; but in old age tliey becumc wholly 
inflexible." * * * *^For as Ave see the fibres which coni- 
})0se the flesh harden by time, and that the flesh of a 
young partridge is, without dispute, more tender than that 
of an old one, so the fibres of the brain of a child or youtli 
will be much more soft and delicate than those of persons 
more advanced in years." 

Strictures upon this Theory. — Without disputing what 
is here stated as to the difference in the fibres of the brain 
at different periods of life, it remains to be proved that all 
this has any thiug to do with the differences of memory in dif- 
ferent i^ersons, or with the phenomena of memory in general. 

These theories, it will be observed, all assume that in per- 
ception and sensation some physical effect is produced on 
the system, which remains after the original sensation or 
perception has ceased to act, and that memory is the result 
of that remaining effect, the perception, or conscious cogni- 
zance of it by the mind. The process is a purely physiolog- 
ical one. Without insisting on the expressions made use 
of to represent this process, all which convey the idea 
strongly of a mechanical effect — type imprinted on tlie 
soul, impression made on it as of a seal on wax, image, 
picture, copy, etc. ; allowing these to be mere metaphors ; 
allowing, moreover, that the essential fact all along as- 
sumed, is a fact, viz., that in sensation, perception, etc., 
some 2)hysical effect is produced on the sensorium ; there 
are still two essential propositions to be established before 
we can admit any of these theories: 1. That this physical 
effect remains any time after the cause ceases to operate ; 
2. That if so, it is in any way concerned in the production 
of memory; and even if these points could be made out, 
it would still be an open question, in what way, possible 
or conceivable, this efTect or impression on the sensorium 
gives rise to the ])henomonon of memory; for this is, after 
all, the chief thing to be explained. 



CHiVPTEH IL 

IMAGINATION. 

§ I .-GENERAL CHARACTER OF THIS FACULTY. 

The Point at which we have arrived.— We have thus far 
treated of those forms of mental representation which are 
concerned in the reproduction of what has once been per- 
ceived or felt, and in the recognition of it as such. It 
remains still to investigate that form of the representativo 
power, which has for its office something quite distinct 
from either of these, and which we may term the creative 
faculty. 

Office of this Faculty. — By the operation of this power, 
the former perceptions and sensations are replaced in 
thought, and combined as in mental reproduction, but 
not, as in mental reproduction, according to the original 
and actual, so that the past is simply repeated, but rather 
according to the mind's own ideal, and at its own will and 
fancy ; so that while the groundwork of the representation 
is something which has been, at some time, an object of 
perception, the picture itself, as it stands before the mind 
in its completeness, is not the copy of any thing actually 
perceived, but a creation of the mind's own. This power 
the mind has, and it is a power distinct from either of those 
already mentioned, and not less wonderful than either. The 
details of the original perception are omitted; time, place, 
circumstance fall out, or are varied to suit the fancy ; the 
scene is laid when and where we like ; the incidents follow 
each other no longer in their actual order ; the original, in 
a word, is no longer faithfully transcribed, but the picture 
is conformed to the taste and pleasure of the artist. The 
conception becomes ideal. This is imagination in its 
true and proper sphere — the creative power of the mind. 



138 IMAGINATION^. 



§ II -RELATION OF THIS TO OTHER FACULTIES. 

The true province of imagination may be more definitely 
distinguished by comparing it with otlier powers of the mind. 

Imagination as related to Memory. — How, then, does 
imagination differ from memory? In this, first and chiefly, 
that memory gives us the actual, imagination, the ideal ; 
in this also, that memory deals only with the past, while 
imagination, not confined, to such limits, sweeps on bolder 
wing, and without bound, alike through the future and 
the past. In one respect they agree. Both give the absent 
— that which is not now and here present to sense. Both 
are representative rather than presentative. Both also are 
forms of conception. 

To Perception. — In what respect does it differ from per- 
ception? In perception the object is given, presented; in 
imagination it is thought, conceived; in the former case it 
is given as actual, in the latter, conceived not as actual but 
as ideal. 

To Judgment. — Imagination differs from judgment, in 
that the latter deals, not like the former, with things in 
themselves considered, but rather with the rehitions of 
things — is, in other words, a form not of simple, but of 
relative concejition ; and also in that it deals with these 
relations as actual, not as ideal. It has always specific 
reference to truth, and is concerned in the formation of 
opinion and belief, as resting on the evidence of truth, and 
the perception of the actual relations of things. 

To Reasoning. — In like manner it differs from reasoning, 
which also has to do with truths, facts — has foi its object 
to ascertain and state those facts or principles ; its sole 
and simple inquiry being, what is trite? Imagination 
concerns itself with no such in(|uiry, admits of no such 
limitation. Its thought is not what did actually occur, 
but what in given circumstances might occur. Its question 
is not what really ^vas, or is, or will he, but what mag be ; 



IMAGINATION. 139 

what may be conceived as possible or probable under such 
or such cootingencies. 

Reasoning, moreover, reaches only such truths as are 
involved in its premises, and may fairly be deduced as 
conclusions from those premises. It furnishes no new 
material, but merely evolves and unfolds what lies wrapped 
up in the admitted j)remises. Imagination lies under no 
such restriction. There is no necessary connection between 
the wrath of Achilles, and the consequences that are made 
to result from it in the unfolding of the epic. 

To Taste. — Imagination and taste are by no means iden- 
tical. The former may exist in a high degree where the 
latter is essentially defective. In such a case the concep- 
tions of the imagination are, it may be, too bold, passing 
the limits of probability, or, it may be, offensive to deli- 
cacy, wanting in refinement and beauty, or in some way 
deficient in the qualities that please a cultivated mind. 
This is not unfrequently the case with the productions of 
the poet, the painter, the orator. There is no lack of 
imagination in their works, while, at the same time, they 
strike us as deficient in taste. Taste is the regulating 
principle, whose office is to guide and direct the imagina- 
tion, sustaining to it much the same relation that conscience 
does to free moral action. It is a lawgiver and a judge. 

To Knowledge. —Still more widely does imagination 
differ from simple knowledge. There may be great learn- 
ing and no imagination, and the reverse is equally true. 
We know that which is — the actual; we imagine that 
which is not — the ideal. Learning enlarges and quickens 
the mind, extends the field of its vision, augments its 
resources, expands its sphere of thought and action ; in 
this way its powers are strengthened, its conceptions mul- 
tiplied and vivified. There is furnished, consequently, 
both more and better material for the creative faculty to 
work upon. Further than this, the imagination is little 
indebted to learning. 



140 IMAGINATION. 

Illustration of these Diflferences.— To illustrate tho differ- 
ences already indicated: I stand at my window and look 
out on tlie landscape. My eye rests on the form and dark 
outline of a mountain, pictured against the sky. Percep- 
tion, this. I go back to my desk, I shut my eyes. That 
form and figure, pencilled darkly against the blue sky, are 
still in my mind. I seem to see them still. That lieavy 
mass, that undulating outline, that bold rugged summit — 
the whole stands before me as distinctly as when my eye 
rested upon it. Conception, this, replacing the absent ob- 
ject. I not only in my thoughts seem to see the mountain 
thus reproduced, but I knoiu it when seen ; I recognize it 
as the mountain which a moment before I saw from my 
window. Memory, this, connecting the conception with 
something in my past experience. The picture fades per- 
haps from my view, and I begin to estimate the probable 
distance of the mountain, or its relative height, as com- 
pared with other mountains. Judgment, this, or the con- 
ception of relations. I proceed to calculate the number of 
square miles of surface on a mountain of that height and 
extent. Reasoning, this-. And now I sweep away, in 
thought, the actual mountain, and replace it with one 
vastly more imposing and grand. Eternal snows rest upon 
its summits ; glaciers hold their slow and stately march 
down its sides; the avalanche thunders from its precipices. 
Ln'fjination now has the field to herself. 

§ III.-ACTIVE AND PASSIVE IMAGINATION. 

View of Dr. Wayland. — *'If we regard the several acts 
of this faculty," says Dr. Wayland, *'we may, I think, 
observe a difference between iliom. We have the power to 
originate images or pictures for ourselves, and we have the 
power to form them as they are presented in language. 
The former nuiy be called active, and the latter passive 
imagination. The active, I believe, always includes tho 
passive power, but tho passive does not always include tho 



IMAGINATIOiT. 141 

active. Thus we frequently observe persons who delight 
in poetry and romance, who are utterly incapable of creat- 
ing a scene or composing a stanza. They can form the 
pictures dictated by language, but are destitute of the 
power of original combination." 

Correctness of this View questioned. — That many who 
enjoy the creations of the poet and the splendid fictions of 
the dramatist and novelist, are themselves incapable of 
producing like creations, is doubtless true. The same is 
true in other departments of the creative art. Many per- 
sons enjoy a fine painting or statue, good music, or a noble 
architectural design, who cannot themselves produce these 
works of art. This does not prove them deficient, how- 
ever, in imagination, for the inability may be owing to 
other causes, as wa,nt of training; nor, on the other hand, 
does the simple enjoyment of ideal creations involve a dif- 
ferent kind of imagination from that exercised in creating. 
Imagination is, as it seems to me, always active, never pas- 
sive. Where it exists, and whenever it is called into exercise, 
it acts, and its action is, in some sense, creative. It conceives 
the ideal, that which, as conceived, does not exist, or at 
least is not known to the senses as existing. It matters not 
in what way these ideal conceptions are suggested, whether 
by the signs of language written or spoken, or by those 
characters which the painter, the sculptor, or the architect 
presents, each in his own way, and with his own material, 
or by one's own previous conceptions. Every ideal concep- 
tion is suggested by something antecedent to itself. All 
active imagination is, in other words, passive, in the sense 
here intended, and all passive imagination, so called, is in 
reahty active, so far as.it is, properly speaking, imagination 
at all. The difference between the faculty that produces 
and that which merely enjoys, is a difference of degree 
rather than of kind. The one is an imagination peculiarly 
active ; the other slightly so; or, more properly, the one 
mind has much, the other little imagination. 



142 I M A G 1 X A T I O N . 

Philosophic Imagination. — The term philosophic imagina- 
tion, in distinction from poetic, is employed by the same 
distinguished writer to denote the faculty, possessed by some 
minds of a high order, of discovering new truths in science; 
of so classifying and arranging known facts as to bring to 
light the laws which govern them, or, by a happy conjec- 
ture, assigning to phenomena hitherto unexplained, a theory 
which will account for them. Whether the faculty now in- 
tended is properly imagination, admits of question. Its field 
is that of conjecture, supposition, theory, invention. It 
involves the exercise of judgment and reason. It seeks after 
truth. It is a process of discovering what is. Imagination 
deals with the ideal only — inquires not for the true. 

§ IV.-IMAGINATION A SIMPLE FACULTY. 

Common Theory. — The view which has been very gene- 
rally entertained of the faculty now under consideration, 
both in this country, and by the Scotch philosophers, re- 
solves it partially or wholly into other powers of the mind, 
as abstraction, association, judgment, taste. In this view, 
it is no longer a simple faculty, if indeed it can with pro- 
priety be called a faculty at all, inasmuch as the effects 
ascribed to it can be accounted for by the agency of the 
other powers now named. 

A different View. — It seems to me that imagination, while 
doubtless it presupposes and involves the exercise of the 
suggestive and associative principle, or of tlie analytic or 
divisive principle by which compounds are broken up into 
their distinct elements, and also, to some extent, of judg- 
ment, or the principle which perceives relations, is, neverthe- 
less, itself a power distinct from each of these, and from 
all of them in combination. Memory presupposes percep- 
tion, or something to be reproduced and remembered. It 
is not, therefore, to be regarded as a complex faculty, com- 
prising the perceptive power as ope of its factors. The 
power to combine, in like m^nnQv, presupposes the ))revious 



IMAGINATION. 143 

separation of elements capable of being reunited, but is 
not to be resolved into that power which produces such 
separation. It involves some exercise of judgment along 
with its own proper and distinctive activity, but is not to 
be confounded with, or resolved into the power of per- 
ceiving relations. 

The faculty of ideal conception is really a power of the 
mind, and it is a simple power, a thing of itself, although 
it may involve and presuppose the activity of other facul- 
ties along with its own. Abstraction, association, judg- 
ment, taste— none of them singly, nor all of them com- 
bined, are what we mean by it. 

Theory of Brown. — Dr. Brown resolves the faculty now 
in question into simple suggestion, accompanied, in the case 
of voluntary imagination, with desire, and with judgment. 
There is nothing in the process different from what occurs 
in any case of the suggestion of one thought by another, he 
would say. We think of a mountain, we think of gold, and 
some analogy, or common property of the two, serves to 
suggest the complex conception, mountain of gold. Even 
where the process is not purely spontaneous, but accom- 
panied with desire on onr part, it is still essentially the same 
process. We think of something, and this suggests other 
related conceptions, some of which we approve as fit for our 
purpose, others we reject as unfit. Here is simple suggestion 
accompanied with desire and judgment; and these are all 
the factors that enter into the process. " We may term this 
state, or series of states, imagination or fancy, and the term 
may be convenient for its brevity. But in using it we must 
not forget that the term, however brief and simple, is still 
the name of a state that is complex, or of a succession ol* 
states, that the phenomena comprehended under it being 
the same in nature, are not rendered, by the use of a mere 
word, different from those to which we have already given 
peculiar names expressive of them as they exist separately; 
and that it is to the classes of these elementary phenomena, 



144 IMAGINATION. 

therefore, that we must refer the whole i:>rocess of imagina- 
tion in our philosophic analysis." 

Strictures on this Theory. — This view, it will be per- 
ceived, in reality sweeps the faculty of imagination entirely 
from the field. To this I cannot yield my assent. Is not 
tliis state, or affection of the mind, as Dr. Brown calls it, 
quite a distinct thing from other mental states and affec- 
tions ? Has it not a character sui generis? Is not the 
operation, the thing done, a different thing from what is 
done in other cases, and by other faculties ; and has not the 
mind the poiver of doing this new and different thing; and 
is not that power of doing a given thing what we mean in 
any case by o, faculty of the mind ? Is there not an element 
in this process under consideration which is riot involved 
in other mental processes, viz.: the ideal element ; the con- 
ception, not of the actual and the real, as in the case of the 
other faculties, but of the purely ideal ? And if the mind 
has the faculty of forming a class of conceptions so entirely 
distinct from the others, why not give that faculty a name, 
and its own proper name, and allow it a place, its own 
proper place, among the mental powers? 

§ V.-IMAGINATION NOT MERELY THE POWER OF 
COMBINATION. 

The prevalent View. — This question is closely connected 
with that just discussed. The usual definitions make the 
faculty under consideration a mere process of combining 
and arranging ideas previously in the mind, so as to form 
new compounds. You have certain conceptions. These 
you combine one with another, as a child puts together 
blocks that lie before him, to suit himself, now this upper- 
most, now that, and the result is a work of imagination. 
It is the mere arrangement of previous conceptions, and 
not itself a power of producing or conceiving any thing. 
And even this arrangement of former conceptions is itself 
a spontaneous casual process, according to Dr. Brown, not 
properly a power of the mind. 



IMAGIXATIOls". 145 

Makes Imagination little else than Invention. — Accord- 
ing to this view, imagination is hardly to be distinguished 
from mere invention in the mechanic arts, which is the result 
of some new combination of previously existing materials. 
The construction of a steam-pump with a new kind of valve, 
is as really a work of imagination, as Paradise Lost. The 
man who contrives a carding-machine, and the man who 
conceives the Transfiguration, the Apollo Belvidere, or the 
Iliad, are exercising both the same faculty — merely com- 
bining in new forms the previous possessions of the mind. 

This View inadequate. — This is a very meagre and in- 
adequate view, as it seems to me, of the faculty of imagina- 
tion. It fixes the attention upon, and elevates into the 
importance of a definition, a circumstance in itself unim- 
portant, while it overlooks the essential characteristic of 
the faculty to be defined. The creative activity of the mind 
is lost sight of in attending to the materials on which it 
•works. 

The Distinctive Element of Imagination overlooked. — 
Imagination I take to be the power of conceiving the ideal. 
The elements which enter into and compose that ideal con- 
ception, are, indeed, elements previously existing, not them- 
selves the mind^s creations; but the conception itself is the 
mind's own creation, and this creative activity, this power 
of conceiving the purely ideal, is the very essence of that 
which we are seeking to define. True, the separate con- 
ceptions which enter into the composition of Paradise Lost 
— trees, flowers, rivers, mountains, angels, deities — were 
already in the poet's mind before he began to meditate the 
sublime epic. They were but the material on which he 
wrought. Has he then created nothing, conceived nothing ? 
Have we truly and adequately described that immortal 
poem when we say that it is a mere combination of trees, 
rivers, hills, and angels, in certain proportions and relations 
not previously attempted ? 

Illustration drawn from the Arts. — The artist makes use 
7 



140 I M A G I ^^ A T 1 O N . 

of colors previously existing wiien he would produce a 
painting, and of marble already in the block, when he 
would chisel a statue or a temple. In reality he only com- 
bines. Yet it would be but a poor definition of any one of 
these sublime arts to say that painting, sculpture, architec- 
ture, is merely the putting together of previous materials 
to form new wholes. We object to such a definition, not 
because it affirms what is not true, but because it does not 
affirm the chief and most important truth ; not because of 
what it states, but because of what it omits to state. These 
are creative arts. They give us indeed not new substances, 
but new forms, new products, new ideas. So is imagination 
a creative faculty. The individual elements may not be 
new, but the grand product and result is new, a creation of 
the mind's own. And this is of more consequence than 
the fact that the elementary conceptions were already in 
the mind. The one is the essential characteristic, the other 
a comparatively unimportant circumstance ; the one de- * 
scribes the thing itself, the other the mere modus operandi 
of the thing. 

Illustration drawn from the Creation of the material 
World. — What is creation in its higher and more proper 
sense, as applied to the formation, by divine power, of the 
world in which we dwell? There was a moment, in the 
eternity of the past, when the omnipotent builder divided 
the light from the darkness, and the evening and the morn- 
ing were the first day. The elements may have existed 
before — heat, air, earth, water, the various material and 
diffused substance of the world about to be — but latent, 
confused, chaotic those elements, not called forth and ap- 
pointed each to its own proper sphere. Liglit slumbers 
amid the chaotic elements unseen. He speaks the word, and 
it comes forth from its hiding-place, and stands revealed in 
its own beauty and s})lendor. Has God made nothing, in so 
doing ? Has he conceived nothing, created notliing ? And 
when the work goes on, and is at length complete, and the 



IMAGINATION. 147 

fair new world hangs poised and trembling on its axis, per- 
fect in every part, and rejoicing the heart of the builder, is 
there no new power displayed. in all this, no creation here ? 
And do we well and adequately express the sublime mystery 
when we say that the deity has merely arranged and com- 
bined materials previously- existing, to form a new whole ? 
Art essentially el'eative. — So when the poet, the painter, 
the skillful architect, the mighty orator, call forth from 
the slumbering elements new forms of beauty and power, 
are not they, too, in their humble way, creators ? True, 
they have in so doing combined conceptions previously ex- 
isting in the mind. The writer combines in new forms the 
existing letters of the alphabet, the painter combines existing 
colors, the architect puts together previously-existiug stones. 
But is this all he does ? Is it the chief thing ? Is this 
the soul and spirit of his divine art ? No; there is a new 
power, a new element, not thus expressed — the power of 
conceiving, and calling into existence, in the realm of 
thought, that which has no actual existence in the world 
of sober reality. He who has this power is a maker — 
noiTjrrjg. It is a power conferred, in some degree, on all, in 
its highest degree, on few. The poet, painter, orator, the 
gifted creative man, whoever he is, belongs to this class. 



§ VI-IMAGINATION LIMITED TO SENSIBLE OBJECTS. 

Law of the Imagination. — It is a law of the imagination, 
that whatever it represents, it realizes, clothes in sensible 
forms, conceives as visible, audible, tangible, or in some 
way within the sphere and cognizance of sense. Whatever 
it has to do with, whatever object it seizes and presents, 
it brings within this sphere, invests with sensible drapery. 
ISTow, strictly speaking, there are no objects, save those of 
sense, which admit of this process, which can be, even in 
conception, thus invested with sensible forms, pictured to 
the eye, or represented to the other senses as objects of 



148 IMAGINATION. 

their cognizauce. If I conceive of objects strictly immaterial 
as thus presented, I make them, by the very conception, to 
depart from their proper nature and to become sensible. 
Imagination has nothing to do, then, strictly speaking, 
>vith abstract truths and conceptions, with spiritual and 
immaterial existences, with ideas and feelings as such, for 
none of these can be represented under sensible forms, or 
brought within the spliere and cognizance of the senses. 
Sensible objects are the groundwork, therefore, of its oper- 
ation — the materials of its art. 

But not to visible Objects. — It is not limited, however, 
to visible objects merely — is not a mere picture-forming, 
image-making j^ower. It more frequently, indeed, fashions 
its creations after the conceptions w^iich sight affords than 
those of the other senses ; but it deals also with concep- 
tions of sound, as in music, and the play of storm and 
tempest, and with other objects of sense, as the taste, the 
touch, pressure, etc. Thus the gelidi fontes of Virgil is an 
appeal to the sense of delicious coolness not less than to 
that of sparkling beauty. A careful analysis of every act 
of the imagination will show, I think, a sensible basis as 
the groundwork of the fabric — something seen, or heard, or 
felt — something said or done — some sensible reality — some- 
thing which, however ideal and transcendental in itself and 
in reality, yet admits of expression in and through the 
senses ; otherwise it were a mere conception or abstraction 
— a mere idea — not an imagination. 

§ VII.-IMAGINATION LIMITED TO NEW RESULTS. 

The simple reproduction of the past, whether an object 
of perception, or sensation, or conception merely, the simple 
reproduction or bringing back of tliat to the mind, we have 
assigned as the office of another faculty. Imagination, wo 
have said, depart'^ from tlic reality, and gives yon not what 
you have had before, but something new, other, difl'erent. 



IMAGINATIOIT. 149 

It is not the simple image-making power, then, for mental 
reproduction gives you an image or picture of any former 
object of perception, as you have seen it~a portrait of the 
past, true and faithful to the original. 

Some writers would differ from the view now expressed. 
Some of the Germans assign to imagination the double office 
of producing the new and reproducing the old ; the latter 
they call imaginative reproduction. In what respect this 
latter differs from the faculty of mental reproduction in gen- 
eral, it is difficult to perceive. When I remember a word 
spoken, or a song, I have the conception of a sound, or a 
series of sounds. When I remember an object in nature, as 
a mountain, a house, etc., I have the conception of a ma- 
terial object, having some definite form, and figure, outline, 
proportion, magnitude, etc. The conception of the absent 
object presents itself in such a case, of course, as an image 
or picture of the object to the mental eye. It is as really 
the work of conception reproductive, however, to replace, in 
this case, the absent object as once perceived, as it is to 
bring back to mind any thing else that has once been before 
it; e. g., a spoken word or a date in history. We may, if we 
please, term this faculty, as employed on objects of sight, 
conception imaginative, and distinguish it from the same 
faculty as employed in reproducing other objects ; but it 
were certainly better to appropriate the term imagination 
to the single and far higher province of creation — the office 
of conceiving the ideal under the form of the sensible. 

§ VIII.-IMAGINATION A VOLUNTARY POWER, 
OR PROCESS. 

Is it an act which the mind puts forth when it will, and 
mthholds when it will ? Or is it a mere passive suscepti- 
bility of the mind to be impressed in this particular way ? 
As the harp lies passive to the wind, which comes and goes 
Ave know not how or whither, so does the mind he open to 
such thoughts and fancies as flit over it, and call forth its 



150 IMAGINATION. 

Iiiddeii harmonies as they pass by ? Those who, with Dr. 
Browu, resolve imagination into mere suggestion, of course 
take the latter view. 

Often Spontaneous. — Undoubtedly, the greater part of 
our ideal conccptiojis are spontaneous — the thoughts that 
rise at the instant, unpremeditated, uncalled, the suggestions 
of the passing moment or event. This is true of our daily 
reveries, and all the little romances we construct, when we 
give the reins to fancy, and a '* varied scene of thought" — 
to use the beautiful expression of Cudworth — passes before 
us, peopled with forms unreal and illusive. There is no 
special volition to call up these conceptions, or such as these. 
They take their rise and hue from the complexion of the 
mind at the time, and the character of the preceding con- 
ceptions, in the ever moving, ever varying series and pro- 
cession of thought. They are like the shifting figures on 
the curtain in a darkened room, shadows coming and go- 
ing, as the forms of those without move hither and thither. 
So far, all is spontaneous. Nay, more : It is, doubtless, 
impossible, by direct volition, to call up any conception, 
ideal or otherwise ; since this, as Dr. Brown has well argued, 
would be *^ either to will without knowing what we will, 
which is absurd," or else to have already the conception 
which we wished to have, which is not less absurd. 

If no intentional Activity, then Imagination not a Fac- 
ulty. — Is there then no intentional creation of new and ideal 
conceptions, of images, similes, metaphors, and other like 
material of a lively and awakened fancy, but merely a casual 
suggestion of such and such thoughts, quite beyond any con- 
trol and volition or even purpose of ours ? If so, then, after 
all, is it proper to speak of a faculty of imagination, since 
we have not, in this case, the power of doing the thing under 
consideration ? We merely sit still in the darkened room, 
and watch the figures as they come and go, with some de- 
sire that the thing may go on, some appreciation of it, some 
critical judgment of the different forms and movements. 



IMAGINATION. 151 

The Mind not wholly passive in the Process. — I reply, 
this is not altogether so. The mind is not altogether passive 
in this thing; there is an activity involved in the process, 
and that of the mind's own. There is a power, either origi- 
nal or acquired, of conceiving such thoughts as are now 
under consideration, a readiness for them, a proneness to 
them, a bias, propensity, inclination, more powerful in some 
than in others, by virtue of which this process occurs. We 
may call this a faculty, though, more strictly, perhaps, a sus- 
ceptiUlity, but it is, in truth, one of the endowments of 
the mind, part of its furniture, one form of its activity. 

A more direct voluntary Element. — But there is, further 
than this, and more directly, a voluntary element in the 
process. It is in our power to yield, or not, to this propen- 
sity, this inclination to the ideal ; to put forth the mental 
activity in this direction, or to withhold it ; to say whether or 
not the imagination shall have its free, full play, and with 
liberated wing soar aloft through her native skies ; whether 
our speech shall be simple argument, unadorned stout logic, 
or logic not less stout, clothed with the pleasing, rustling 
drapery which a lively imagination is able to throw, like a 
splendid robe, over the naked form of truth. 

There is, then, really a mental activity, and an activity 
in some degree under control of the will, in the process we 
are considering. 

Same Difficulty lies elsewhere. — The same difficulty which 
meets us here, meets us elsewhere, and lies equally against 
other mental powers. We cannot, by direct volition, remem- 
ber a past event, for this implies, as in the case of the voli- 
tion to imagine a given scene, either that the thing is already 
in view, or else that we will we know not what. Yet, as 
every one knows, there is a way of recalling past events ; a 
faculty or power of doing this thing ; a faculty which we 
exercise when we please. 

The same may be said of the power of thought in general. 
We cannot, by direct volition, thinlc of any given thing, for 



152 1 M AGINATION. 

to will to think of it is {ilrcady to have thought of it, yet 
there is mental activity involved in every process of thought, 
a mental power exercised, a faculty of some sort exercised. 
Nor is it a powder altogether beyond our own control. We 
can direct our thoughts, can govern them, can turn them, 
as we do a water-course, that luill flow somewhere, but 
whose channel we may lead this way or that. 



§ IX.-USE AND ABUSE OF IMAGINATION. 

Influence upon the Mind. — As to the benefits arising 
from the due use and exercise of this faculty, not much, i)er- 
haps, is requisite to be said. It gives vividuess to our con- 
ceptions, it raises the tone of our entire mental activity, it 
adds force to our reasoning, casts the light of fancy over the 
sombre plodding steps of judgment, gilds the recollections 
of the past, and the anticipations of the future, with a 
coloring not their own. It lights up the whole horizon of 
thought, as the sunrise flashes along the mountain tops, 
and lights up the world. It would be but a dreaiy world 
without that light. 

Influence on the Orator. — By its aid the orator presents 
his clear, strong argument in his own simple strength and 
beauty, or commands those skilful touches, that, by a magic 
spell, thi'ill all hearts in unison. There floats before his 
mind, ever as he proceeds, the beau ideal of what his argu- 
ment should be; toward this he aspires, and those aspira- 
tions make him wliat he is. No man is eloquent who has 
not the imagination requisite to form and keep vividly be- 
fore him such an ideal. 

On the Artist. — By its aid the artist breathes into the 
inanimate marble the breath of life, and it becomes a living 
soul. By its aid, deaf old Beethoven, at his stringless 
instrument, calls up the richest harmony of sound, and 
blind old Milton, in his darkness and dosolatcness, takes his 
magician's wand, and lo ! there rises before him the vision 



I MAG I If ATI ON. 153 

of that Paradise where man, in his primeval innocence, 
walked with God. 

On other Minds. — Nor is it the poet, the orator, the 
artist, alone, that derive benefit from the exercise of this 
faculty, or have occasion to make use of it. It is of in- 
estimable value to us all. It opens for us new worlds, en- 
larges the sphere of our mental vision, releases us from the 
bonds and bounds of the actual, and gives us, as a bird let 
loose, the wide firmament of thought for our domain. It 
gilds the bald, sullen actualities, and stern realities of life, 
as the morning reddens the chill, snowy summits of the 
Alps, till they glow in resplendent beauty. 

On the Spectator and Observer. — It is of service, not to 
him who writes alone, but to him who reads; not to him 
who speaks alone, but to him who hears ; not to the artist 
alone, but to the observer of art ; for neither poet, nor 
orator, nor artist, can convey the full meaning, the soul, the 
inspiration of his work, to one who has not the imagina- 
tion to appreciate and feel the beauty, and the power, that 
lie hidden there. There is just as much meaning in their 
works, to us, as there is soul in us to receive that meaning. 
The man of no imagination sees no meaning, no beauty, no 
power, in the Paradise Lost, the symphonies of Beethoven 
and Mozart, the Transfig-uratiou of Kaphael, the Aurora of 
Guido, or the master-pieces of Canova and Thorwaldsen. 

Errors of Imagination. — Undoubtedly there are errors, 
mistakes, prejudices, illusions of the imagination ; mistakes 
in judgment, in reasoning, in the afi'airs of practical life, 
the source of which is to be found in some undue influence, 
some wrong use, of the imagination. We mistake its con- 
ceptions for realities. We dwell upon its pleasing visions 
till we forget the sober face of truth. We fancy pleasures, 
benefits, results which will never be realized, or we look 
upon the dark and dreary side of things till all nature 
wears the sombre hue of our disordered fancy. 

Not, therefore, to set aside its due Culture. — All this we 
7* 



154 lilAGINATlON. 

are liable to do. All these abuses of the imagination are 
possible, likely enougli to occur. Against them we ijiust 
guard. But to cry out against the culture and due exercise 
of the imagination, because of these abuses to which it is 
liable, is not the part of wisdom or highest benevolence. 
To hinder its fair and full development, and to preclude 
its use, is to cut ourselves off, and shut ourselves out, from 
the source of some of the highest, purest, noblest, pleas- 
ures of this our mortal life. 

No Faculty perhaps of more Value. — It is not too much 
to say, that there is, perhaps, no faculty of the mind which, 
under due cultivation, and within proper bounds, is of more 
real service to man, or is more worthy of his regard, than 
this. Especially is it of value in forming and holding be- 
fore the mind an ideal of excellence in whatever we pursue, 
a standard of attainment, practicable and desirable, but 
loftier far than any thing we have yet reached. To present 
such an ideal, is the work of the imagination, which looks 
not upon the actual, but the possible, and conceives that 
which is more perfect than the human eye hath seen, or 
the human hand wrought. No man ever 3'et attained ex- 
cellence, in any art or profession, who had not floating be- 
fore his mind, by day and by night, such an ideal and vision 
of what he might and ought to be and to do. It hovers 
before him, and hangs over him, like the bow of promise 
and of hope, advancing with his progress, ever rising as he 
rises, and moving onward as he moves; he will never reach 
it, but without it he would never be what he is. 



§ X.-CULTURE OF THE IMAGINATION. 

Strengthened by Use. — In what way, it is sometimes 
asked, may the faculty under consideration be improved 
and strengthened? To this it may be replied, in general, 
that the ideal faculty, like every other, is developed and 
strengthened by exercise, weakened and impaired by neg- 



IMAGINATION. 155 

lecfc. There is no surer way to secure its growth than to 
call its present powers, whatever they may be, into frequent 
exercise. The mental faculties, like the thews and muscles 
of the physical frame, develop by use. Imagination fol- 
lows the same general law. 

Study of the Works of others.— I do not mean by this 
exclusively the direct exercise of the imagination in ideal 
creations of our own, although its frequent employment in 
this way, is of course necessary to its full development. 
But the imagination is also exercised by the study of the 
ideal creations of others, especially of those highly gifted 
minds which have adorned and enriched their age with 
productions of rarest value, which bear the stamp and seal 
of immortality. With these, in whatever department of 
letters or art, in poetry, oratory, music, painting, sculpture, 
architecture — whatever is grand, and lofty, and full of in- 
spiration, whatever is beautiful and pleasing, whatever is of 
choicest worth and excellence in its own proper sphere ; 
with these let him become familiar who seeks to cultivate 
in himself the faculty of the ideal. Every work of the 
imagination appeals to the imagination of the observer, and 
thus develops the faculty which it calls into exercise. No 
one can be familiar with the creations of Shakespeare and 
Milton, of Mozart and Beethoven, of Raphael and Michael 
Angelo, and not catch something of their inspiration. 

Study of Nature. — Even more indispensable is the study 
of nature ; and it has this advantage, that it is open to those 
who may not have access to the sublime works of the high- 
est masters of art. Nature, in all her moods and phases — 
in her wonderful variety of elements — the grand and the 
lowly, the sublime and the beautiful, the terrible and the 
pleasing — nature in her mildest and most fearful displays 
of power, and also in her softest and sweetest attractions, 
is open to every man's observation, and he must be a 
close observer and a diligent student of her who would 
cultivate in himself the ideal element. The most gifted 



15G IMAGINATION. 

SOUS of genius, llic minds most richly endowed with the 
power of ideal creation, have been remarkable for their 
love and careful study of nature. 

Mistake on this Point.— I must notice in this connection, 
however, a mistake into which some have fallen in regard 
to this matter. The simple description of a scene in na- 
ture, just as it is, is not properly a work of the imagina- 
tion. It is simply perception or memory that is thus 
exercised, along with judgment and artistic power of ex- 
pression. Imagination gives not the actual, but the ideal. 
She never satisfies herself with an exact copy. The mere 
portrait painter, however skillful, is not in the highest 
sense an artist. The painter, mentioned by Wayland, who 
copied the wing of the butterfly for the wing of the Sylph, 
was not, in so doing, exercising his imagination, but only 
his power of imitation. So, too, when Walter Scott gives 
us, in the cave of Denzel, a precise description of some 
spot which he has seen, even to the very plants and flowers 
that grow among the rocks, that scene, however pleasing 
and life-like, is not properly a creation of his own imagina- 
tion; it is a description of the actual, and not a conception 
of the ideal. Much that is included under the general 
title of works of the imagination is not properly the pro- 
duction of that faculty. 

Coleridge has made essentially the same remark, that in 
what is called a work of imagination, much is simple nar- 
ration, much the filling up of the outline, and not to be 
attributed to that faculty. 

The Student of Nature not a mere Copyist. — The true 
study of nature, is not to observe simply that we may copy 
what she presents, but rather to gather materials on which 
our own conceptive power may work, and which it may 
fashion after ifs own designs into new combinations and 
results of beauty. Nature, too, is full of hints and sugges- 
tions which a discerning mind, and an eye practised to the 
beautiful, will not fail to catch and improve. It is onlyi 



IMAGINATION. 157 

when we do this, when we begin, in fact, to depart 
from, and go beyond the actual, that we exercise the 
imagination. 

Difference illustrated by an Example. — The difference 
between simple description, and the creations of the con- 
ceptive faculty, may be shown by reference to a single 
example : 

** The twilight hours, like birds, flew by, 

As lightly and as free ; 
Ten thousand stars were in the sky, 

Ten thousand in the sea ; 
For every wave, with dimpled cheek 

That leaped upon the air. 
Had caught a star in its embrace. 

And held it trembling there." 

The quiet stillness of the evening, the reflection of the 
stars in the sea, are the two simple ideas which enter into 
this beautiful stanza. They would have been faithfully and 
fully expressed, as far as regards all the perfections of exact 
description, by the simple propositions which follow : 
*' The evening hours passed swiftly and silently ; many stars 
appeared in the sky, and each was reflected in the sea." 

The poet is not content with this description. The swift- 
ness and silentness of those passing hours remind him of 
the flight of birds along the sky. The resemblance strikes 
him as beautiful. He embodies it in his description. It 
is an ideal conception. He goes further. He sees in the 
water, not the reflection merely of the stars, but the stars 
themselves, as many in the sea as in the sky. Here is a 
departure from the truth, from the actual, an advance into 
the region of the ideal. Imagination, thus set free, takes 
still further liberties: attributes to the inanimate wave the 
dimpled cheek of beauty, ascribes its restlessness not to the 
laws of gravitation, but to the force of a strictly human 
passion, under the influence of which it leaps into the air 



158 IMAGINATION. 

toward the object of its affection, seizes it, and holds it, 
trembling, in its embrace. 

§ XI.-HISTORICAL SKETCH. 

Various Definitions and Theories of Imagination 
BY Different Writers. 

Definition of Dr. Reid. — Reid makes it nearly synony- 
mous with simple apprehension. "I take imagination, in 
its most proper sense, to signify a lively conception of 
objects of sight" the conception of things as they appear 
to the eye. Addison employs the term with the same 
limitation, that is, as confined to objects of sight. 

Of Stewart. — Stewart regards this as incorrect, holds 
that imagination is not confined to visible or even sensible 
objects. He regards it as a complex, not a simple power, 
including simple apprehension, abstraction, judgment, or 
taste, and association of ideas ; its province being to select, 
from different objects, a variety of qualities and circum- 
stances, and combine and arrange them so as to form a new 
creation of its own. 

Of Brown. — Brown differs not essentially from the view 
of Stewart. He also makes imagination a complex opera- 
tion, involving conception, abstraction, judgment, associa- 
tion. He distinguishes between the spo^itaneous and the 
voluntary operation of the imaginative power; in the for- 
mer case, there is no voluntary effort of selection, combi- 
nation, etc., but images arise independently of any desire or 
choice of ours, by the laws of suggestion; and this he holds 
to be the most frequent operation of the faculty. In the 
case of voluntary imagination, which is attended with desire, 
this desire is the prominent thing, and serves to keep the 
conception of the subject before the mind, in consequence 
of which, a variety of associated conceptions follow, by the 
laws of suggestion, in regular train. Of these suggested 
conceptions and images, some, we approve, others, we do 



(I 



IMAGINATION^. 159 

not ; the former, by virtue of our approval, become more 
lively and permanent, while the latter pass away. Thus, 
without any direct effort or power of the will to combine 
and separate these various conceptions, they shape them- 
selves according to our approval and desire, in obedience 
to the ordinary laws of suggestion. 

Of Smith. — Sydney Smith regards imagination in much 
the same light — a faculty in which association plays the 
principal part, assisted by judgment, taste, etc., amounting, 
in fact, to much the same thing that we call invention; the 
process by which a poet constructs a drama, or a machinist 
a steam-engine, being essentially the same. 

Of Wayland and TJpham. — Wayland, in common with 
most of the authors already cited, makes imagination a 
complex faculty, involving abstraction, and association; 
*'the power by which, from simple conceptions already 
existing in the mind, we form complex wholes or images. " 
Some form of abstraction necessarily precedes the exercise 
of this power. The different elements of a conception 
must be first mentally severed before we can reunite them 
in a new conception. "It is this power of reuniting the 
several elements of a conception at will, that is, properly, 
imagination. Imagination may then be designated the 
power of combination." Upham takes the same view. The 
same view, essentially, is also given by Amande Jacques, a 
French writer of distinction. 

View of Tissot. — Tissot, as also many of the German 
philosophers, gives imagination the double province of 
recalling sensible intuitions, objects of sight, such as we 
have known them, and also of conceiving objects alto- 
gether differently disposed from our original perceptions of 
them, varied from the reality. The former they call imagi- 
nation reproductive, the latter, creative. That form of the 
imagination which is purely spontaneous, in distinction 
from the voluntary, they i^vm. fancy. 

Of Coleridge and MeLkdin.— Coleridge, followed by llahan. 



100 iM A r, I^' ATiox. 

regards imagination as the power whicli recombiues the 
several elements of thought into conceptions, which con- 
form not to mere existences, but to certain fundatnenttd 
idcds in the mind itself, ideas of the beautiful, sublime, etc. 
These Definitions agree in what. — These definitions, it 
will be perceived, with scarcely an exception make imagi- 
nation to be a complex faculty, and regard it as merely the 
power of combining, in new forms, the various elements of 
thought already in the mind. The correctness of each of 
these ideas has been already discussed. 



INTELLECTUAL FACULTIES, 



i^^- 



PART THIRD. 
THE REFLECTIVE POWER 



THE REFLECTIVE POWER. 



GENERAL OBSERVATIONS. 

OiRce of this Power. — We have thus far treated of that 
power of the mind by which it takes cognizance of objects 
as directly presented to sense, and also of that by which it 
represents to itself former objects of cognition in their ab- 
sence. But a large portion of our knowledge and of our 
mental activity does not fall under either of these divisions. 
There is a class of mental operations which differ from the 
former, in that they do not give us directly sensations or 
perceptions of things, do not present objects themselves ; 
and from the latter, in that they do not represent to the 
thought absent objects of perception ; which differ from 
botli, in that they deal not with the things themselves, but 
witli the properties and relations of things — not with the 
concrete, but with the abstract and general. This class of 
operations, to distinguish it from the preceding classes, we 
have named, in our analysis, the refiedive power of the mind. 
It comprises a large part of our mental activity. 

Specific Character.— The form of mental activity which 
is characteristic of this faculty, is the perception of relations, 
that which Dr. Brown calls relative suggestion, but which 
we should prefer to term relative conception. The mind is 
so constituted that when distinct objects of thought are 
presented, it conceives at once the notion of certain rela- 
tions existing between those objects. One is larger, one 
6* 



164 THE REFLECTIVE POWER. 

smaller, one is here, the other there, one is a part in rela- 
tion to a whole, some are like, others nnlike each other. 
Tiie several relations that may exist and fall under the 
notice of this power of the mind are too many to be easily 
enumerated. The more important are, position, resem- 
blance, proportion, degree, comprehension. All these may, 
perhaps, by a sufficiently minute analysis, be resolved into 
one — that of comprehension, or the relation of a whole to 
its parts. 

Comprehensive of several Processes. — The faculty now 
under consideration will, on careful investigation, be found 
to underlie and comprehend several mental processes usually 
ranked as distinct operations and faculties of the mind, but 
which are at most only so many forms of the general power 
of relative conception. Such are the mental operations 
usually known as jndfjme7il, abstraction, generalization, and 
reasoning. Of these, and their relation to the general 
faculty comprehensive of all, we shall have occasion to 
speak further as we proceed. 

Two Modes of Operation. — As the relations of object to 
object may all be comprised under the general category 
of comprehension, or the whole and its parts, there are 
manifestly two modes or processes in which the reflective 
faculty may put forth its activity. It may combine the 
several parts or elements to form a complex whole, or it 
may divide the complex whole into its several parts and 
elements. In the one case, it works from the parts, as 
already resolved, to the whole ; in the other, from tlie 
whole, as already combined, to the parts. The one is the 
compositive or synthetic, the other, the analytic or divisive 
i^rocess. Each will claim our attention. 



CHAPTEH L 

THE SYNTHETIC PROCESS— GENERALIZATION. 

§ I.-NATURE OF THE SYNTHETIC PROCESS. 

Our Conceptions often Complex. — If we examine atten- 
tivel}^ the various notions or conceptions of the mind, we 
find that a large part of them are in a sense complex — 
comprising, in a word, a certain aggregate of properties, 
which, taken together, constitute our conception of the 
object. Thus, my notion of table, or chair, or desk, is 
made up of several conceptions, of form, size, material, 
color, hardness, weight, use, etc., etc., all which, taken 
together, constitute my notion of the object thus designated. 

Originally given as discrete. — These several elements that 
enter into the composition of our conceptions of objects, it 
is further to be noticed, are, in the first instance, given us in 
perception, not as a complex whole, but as discrete elements. 
Thus, sight gives us form and color; touch gives us ex- 
tension, hardness, smoothness, etc.; muscular resistance 
gives us weight, and so, by the various senses, we gather the 
several properties which make up our cognizance of the ob- 
ject, and which, taken together, constitute our conception 
of it. 

Conceptions of Classes. — But a large part of our concep- 
tions, if we carefully observe the operations of our own minds, 
arenotparticular, but general, not of individual objects, but 
of classes of objects. Of this, any one may satisfy himself 
on a little reflection. How are these conceptions formed ? 

Such Conceptions, how formed. — The process of forming 
a general conception, I take to be this : The several ele- 
ments that compose our conception of an individual object, 



IGO THE SYN"THETIC PROCESS. 

being originally presented, as we liave already said, one by 
one, in the discrete, and not iu the concrete, it is of course 
in our power to conceive of any one of these elements by 
itself. No new power or faculty is needed, for this. By the 
usual laws of suggestion any one of these elements may be 
presented to the mind, distinct from those with which, in 
perception, it is associated, and as such it may be the object 
of attention and thought. I may thus conceive of the 
color, the form, the size, or the fragrance of a flower. 

Extension of the Process to other Objects. — It is of the 
form, color, etc., of some particular flower, as yet, how- 
ever, and not of form and color iu general, that I conceive. 
Suppose, now, that other flow^ers are presented to my notice, 
possessing the same form and color, for example, red. 
Presently I observe other objects, besides flowers, that are 
of the same color — horses, cows, tables, books, cloths. As 
the field of observation enlarges, still other objects are 
added to the list, until that which I first conceived of as the 
peculiar property of a single flower, the rose, and of a single 
specimen, no longer is appropriated in my thoughts to any 
individual object or class of objects, but becomes a general 
conception. It is an abstraction and also a generahzation; 
an abstraction because it no longer denotes or connotes any 
individual object, but stands before the mind as simple, pure 
quality, red, or redness ; a generalization inasmuch as it is 
a quality pertaining equally to a great variety of objects. 

The Process carried still further.— Having thus obtained 
the general conception of red, and, in like manner, of blue, 
violet, yellow, indigo, orange, etc., etc., I may carry the 
process still further, and form a conception more general ■ 
than either, and which shall include all these. These are 
all varieties denoting the certain peculiarity of appearance 
which external objects present to the eye. Fixing my ■ 
thought uj)on this tlieir common characteristic, I no longer 
conceive of red, or blue, or violet, as such, but of color in 
general. 



i 



THE SYNTHETIC PEOCESS. 167 

In like manner, I observe the properties of different tri- 
angles — right-angled, obtuse-angled, acute-angled, equilat- 
eral, isosceles. I leave out of view whatever is peculiar to 
each of these varieties, retaining only what is common to 
them all — the property of three-sidedness; and my con- 
ception is now a general one — triangle. 

It is in this manner that we form the conceptions ex- 
pressed by such terms as animal, man, virtue, form, beauty, 
and the like. A large proportion of the words in ordinary 
use, are of this sort. They are the names or expressions 
of abstract, general, conceptions : abstract, in that they do 
not relate to any individual object ; general, in that they 
comprehend, and are equally applicable to a great variety 
of objects. 

Process of Classification. — The process of classification 
is essentially the same with that by Avhich we form general 
abstract conceptions. Observing different objects, I find 
that they resemble each other in certain respects, while in 
others they differ. Objects A, B, and 0, differ, for instance, 
in form, and size, and weight, and fragrance, but agree in 
some other respect, as in color. On the ground of this 
resemblance, I class them together in my conceptions. In 
so doing, I leave out of view all other peculiarities, the 
points in which they differ, and take into account only the 
one circumstance in which they agree. In the very act of 
forming a class, I have formed a general conception, which 
lies at the basis of that classification. 

Tendency of the Mind.— The tendency of the mind to 
group individual objects together on the ground of perceived 
resemblances, is very strong, and must be regarded as one 
of the universal and instinctive propensities of our nature, 
one of the laws of mental action. As we have already re- 
marked, respecting general abstract terms, a large portion 
of the language of ordinary life is the language of classifica- 
tion. The words which constitute by far the greater part 
of the names of things, are common nouns, that is, names of 



168 THE SYNTHETIC PROCESS. 

classes. The names of iiulividiuil objects are comparatively 
few. Adjectives, specifying the qualities of objects, denote 
groups or classes possessing that common quality. Adverbs 
qualifying verbs or adjectives, designate varieties or classes of 
action and of quality. Indeed, the very existence of language 
as a medium of communication, and means of expression, in- 
volves and depends upon this tendency of the mind to class 
together, and then to designate by a common noun, objects 
diverse in reality, but agreeing in some prominent points of 
resemblance. In no other way would language be possible to 
man, since, to designate each individual object by a name 
peculiar to itself, would be an undertaking altogether im- 
practicable. 

Rudeness of the earlier Attempts. — The first efforts of 
the mind at the process of classification are, doubtless, rude 
and imperfect. The infancy of the individual, and the in- 
fancy of nations and races, are^ in this respect, alike; objects 
are grouped roughly and in the mass, specific diflferences are 
overlooked, and individuals differing widely and essentially 
arc thrown into the same class, on the ground of some ob- 
served and striking resemblance. As observation becomes 
more minute, and the mind advances in culture and power 
of discrimination, these ruder generalizations are either 
abandoned or subdivided into genera and species, and the 
process assumes a scientific form. What was at first mere 
classification, becomes now, in the strictest sense, 
generalization. 

Scientific Classification. — Classification, however scien- 
tific, is still essentially the process already described. We 
observe a number of individuals, for example, of our own 
species. Certain resemblances and differences strike us. 
Some have straight hair, and copper complexion, others, 
woolly hair, and black complexion, others, again, differ 
from the ])receding in both these respects. Neglecting 
minor and s])ecific differences, we fix our attention on the 
grand points of resemblance, and thus form a general con- 




THE SYNTHETIC PROC ESS. 169 

ception, which embraces whatever characteristics belong, 
in common, to the several individuals which thus resemble 
each other. To this general conception we appropriate the 
name Indian, Negro, Caucasian, etc., which henceforth 
represent to us so many classes or varieties of the human 
race. Bringing these classes again into comparison with each 
other, we observe certain points of resemblance between 
them, and form a conception still more general, that of man. 

Further Illustration of the same Process. — In tliis way 
the genera and species of science are formed. On grounds 
of observed resemblance, we class together, for example, 
certain animals. They differ from each other in color, size, 
and many other respects, but agree in certain characteristics 
which we find invariable, as, for example, the form of the 
skeleton, number of vertebrae, number and form of teeth, 
aiTangement of organs of digestion. We give a name to 
the class thus formed — carnivora, rodentia, etc. The class 
thus formed and named, we term the genus, while the 
minor differences mark the subordinate varieties or species 
included under the genus. In the same way, comparing 
other animals, w^e form other genera. Bringing the several 
genera also into comparison, we find them likewise agreeing 
in certain broad resemblances. These points of agree- 
ment, in turn, constitute the elements of a conception and 
classification still wider and more comprehensive than the 
former. Under this new conception I unite the previous 
genera, and term them all mammalia. And so on to the 
highest and widest generalizations of science. 

Having formed our classification we refer any new speci- 
men to some one of the classes already formed, and the 
more complete our original survey, the more correct is this 
process of individual arrangement. It is remarked by Mr. 
Stewart, that the islanders of the Pacific, who had never 
seen any species of quadruped, except the hog and the goat, 
naturally inferred, when they saw a cow, that she mnst be- 
long to one or the other of these classes. The limitations 



170 THE SYNTHETIC TUOCESS. 

of Iiumiiii knowledge inuy lead the wisest philosopher into 
essentially the same error. 

It is in the way now described that we form genera, and 
species, and the various classes into which, for purposes of 
science, we divide the multitude of objects which are pre- 
sented in nature, and which, but for this faculty, would 
appear to us but a confused and chaotic assemblage with- 
out number, order, or arrangement. The individuals exist 
in nature — not the classes, and orders, and species; these 
are the creations of the human mind, conceptions of the 
brain, results of that process of thought now described as 
the reflective faculty in its synthetic form. 

Importance of this Process. — It is evident at a glance 
that this process lies at the foundation of all science. Had 
we no power of generalization — had we no power of sepa- 
rating, in our thoughts, the quality from the substance to 
which it pertains, of going beyond the concrete to the ab- 
stract, beyond the particular to the general — could we deal 
only with individual existences, neither comparison nor 
classification would be possible ; each particular individual 
object would be a study to us by itself, nor would any 
amount of diligence ever carry us beyond the very alphabet 
of knowledge. 

Existence of general Conceptions questioned. — Impor- 
tant as this faculty may seem when thus regarded, it has 
been questioned by some, whether, after all, we have, in 
fact, or can have, any general abstract ideas ; whether tri- 
angle, man, animal, etc., suggest in reality any thing more 
to the mind tlian simply some particular man, or triangle, 
or animal, which we take to represent the whole class to 
which the individual belongs. 

There can be no (question, however, that we do distin- 
guish in our minds tlie thouglit of some particular man, as 
Mr. A, or some ])articular sort of man, as black man, white 
man, from the thought suggested by the term man ; and 
the thought of an isosceles or right-angled triangle, frouj 



THE SYKTHETIC PROCESS. 171 

the tlioiight suggested by the unqualified term triangle. 
They do not mean the same thing ; they have not the 
same value to our minds. Now there are a great multi- 
tude of such general terms in every language, they have a 
definite meaning and value, and we know what they mean. 
It must be then that we have general abstract ideas, or 
general conceptions'. 

Argument of the Nominalist. — But the nominalist re- 
plies. The term man, or triangle, awakens in your mind, 
in reality and directly, only the idea of some particular in- 
dividual or triangle, and this stands as a sort of type or 
representation of other like individuals of whom you do 
not definitely think as such and so many. I reply, this 
cannot be shown ; but even if it were so, the very language 
of the objection implies the power of having general con- 
ceptions. If the individual man or triangle thought of 
stands as a type or representation, as it is said, of a great 
number of similar men and triangles, then is there not al- 
ready in my mind, prior to this act of representation, the 
idea of a class of objects, arranged according to the law of 
resemblance, in other words, a general abstract idea or co7i- 
ception? If I had not already formed such an idea, the 
particular object presented to my thoughts could not stand 
as type or representation of any such thing, or of any 
thing beyond itself, for the simple reason that there would 
be nothing of the sort to represent. 

Further Reply. — Besides, there is a large class of general 
terms to Avhich this reasoning of the nominalist would not 
at all apply — such terms as virtue, vice, knowledge, wis- 
dom, truth, time, space — which manifestly do not awaken 
in the mind the thought of any particular virtue or vice, 
any particular truth, any definite time, any definite space, 
but a general notion under which all particular instances 
may be included. To this the nominalist will perhaps re- 
ply, that in such cases we are really thinking, after all, 
of mere names or signs, as when we use the algebraic 



172 T H E S Y N T ir E T I ( ' P U O C E S S . 

formula x — y, a more term of convenience, having indeed 
some value, we do not know precisely Avliat, itself the ter- 
minus and object of our thought for the time being. In 
such cases the mind stops, lie would say, with the term it- 
self, and does not go beyond it to conjure up a general con- 
ception for it. 80 it is with the terms virtue, vice; so 
with the general terms, class, si)ecies, genus, man, animal, 
triangle ; they are mere collective terms, signs, formulas 
of convenience, to which you attach no more meaning 
than to the expression x — y. If you would find their 
meaning and attach any definite idea to them, you must 
resolve them into the particular objects, the particular 
vices, virtues, etc., which go to make up the class. 

I reply to all this, you are still classifying, still forming 
a general conception, the expression of which is your so- 
called formula, x — y, alias virtue, man, and the like. 

§ II.-PROVINCE AND RELATION OF SEVERAL TERMS 
EMPLOYED TO DENOTE, IN PART, OR AS A 
WHOLE, THIS POWER OF THE MIND. 

We are now j^repared to consider the proper province 
and relation of several terms frequently employed, with 
considerable latitude and diversity of meaning, to denote, 
in part, or as a whole, the process now described. Such are 
the terms ahstractioriy generalization^ dassification, and 
judgment. 

I. Abstraction. 

Term often used in a Wide Sense. — This term is fre- 
quently employed to denote the entire synthetic process as 
now described — the power of forming abstract- general con- 
ceptions, and of classifying objects according to those con- 
ceptions. It is thus employed by Stewart, Wayland, Mahan, 
and others. There is, perhaps, no objection to this use of 
the word, except that it is mauiiestly a de])arture from the 
strict and proper sense of the term. 



ii 



THE SYiq^THETIC PROCESS. 173 

More limited Sense. — There is another and more common 
use of the term abstraction, which gives it a more limited 
sense. As thus employed, it denotes that act of the mind 
by which we fix our attention on some one of the several 
parts, properties, or qualities of an object, to the exclusion 
of all the other parts or properties which go to make up 
the complex whole: In consequence of this exclusive 
direction of the thoughts to that one element, the other 
elements or properties are lost sight of, drop out of the 
account, and there remains in our present conception only 
that one item which we have singled out from the rest. 
This is denominated, in common language, austr action. 
Such is the common idea and definition of that term. It 
is Mr. Uphara's definition. 

This not really Abstraction. — Whether this, again, is the 
true idea of abstraction, is, to say the least, questionable. 
When I think of the cover of a book, the handle of a door, 
the spring of a watch, in distinction from the other parts 
which make up a complex whole, I am hardly exercising 
the power of abstract thought ; certainly no new, distinct 
faculty is requisite for this, but simply attention to one 
among several items or objects of perception. Hardly ever 
can it be called analysis, with Wayland. It is the simple 
direction of the thought to some one out of several objects 
presented. A red rose is before me. I may think of its 
color exclusively, in distinction from its form and fragrance; 
that is, of the redness of this particular rose, this given sur- 
face before me. The object of my thought is purely a 
sensible object. I have not abstracted it from the sensible 
individual object to which it belongs. It is in no sense an 
abstract idea, a pure conception. There has been nothing 
done which is not done in any case where one thing, rather 
than another of a group or assemblage of objects, is made 
the object of attention. 

The true Nature of Abstraction. — But suppose now that 
instead of thinking of the redness of this rose in particular, 



174 THE SYNTHETIC PROCESS. 

I think of (he color red in general, without reference to 
the rose or any other substance; or, to carry tlic process 
further, of color in general, without specifying in my 
thought any particular color, evidently I am dealing now 
with abstractions. I have in my thought drawn aioay 
(abstraho) the color from the substance to which it belongs, 
from all substance, and it stands forth by itself a pure con- 
ception, an abstraction, having, as such, no existence save in 
my mind, but there it does exist a definite object of contem- 
plation. The form of mental activity now described, I should 
call abstraction. It is not necessary, perhaps, to assign it a 
place as a distinct faculty of the mind. It is, in reality, a 
part, and an important part, of the synthetic process already 
described. But it is not the whole of that process, and the 
term abstraction should not, therefore, in strict propriety, at 
least as now defined, be applied as a general term to desig- 
nate that class of mental operations. The synthetic process 
involves something more than mere abstraction ; viz. : 

II. Classification as Distinguished from Gener- 
alization. 

Classification. — When the general idea or conception has 
been formed in the mind, we proceed to bring together 
and arrange, on the basis of that general conception, whatever 
individual objects seem to us to fall under that general rule. 
This we call classification. Thus, forming first the abstract, 
or general conception red, we bring together in our tliought 
a variety of objects to which this conception is applicable, as 
red horses, red flowers, red books, red tables, etc., etc., thus 
forming classes of objects on the ground of this common 
property. The difference between classification and gener- 
alization, in so far as they are not synonymous, I take to 
be simply this, that in the former we group and arrange 
objects according to no gou'ral law, Init mere appearance 
or resemblance, often, Iherefore, on faneifnl or arbitrary 
grounds ; while in the latter case, we ])roceed according to 



THE SYNTHETIC PROCESS. 175 

some general and scientific principle or law of classification, 
making only those distinctions the basis of our arrangement 
which are founded in nature, and are at once invariable and 
essential. 



III. JUDGME]<rT AS EeLATED TO OlASSIFICATIOK. 

Judgment. — We have already spoken of that specific 
process by which, having formed a given conception, or a 
given rule, we bring the individual objects of perception and 
thought under that rule, or reject them from it, according 
as they agree or disagree with the conception we have 
formed. The process itself we have called classification. 
The mental activity thus employed is technically termed 
judgment — the power of subsuming, under a given notion 
or conception, the particular objects which properly belong 
there. Thus, the botanist, as he meets with new plants, and 
the ornithologist, as he discovers new varieties of birds, refers 
them at once to the famil}^, the genus, the species to which 
they belong. His mind runs over the generic types of the 
several classes and orders into which all plants and birds are 
divided, he perceives that his new specimen answers to the 
characteristic features of one of these families, or classes, 
and not to those of the others, and he accordingly assigns it 
a place under one, and excludes it from the rest. So doing, 
he exercises judgment. All classification involves and de- 
pends upon this power ; closely viewed, the action of the 
mind, in the exercise of this power, amounts simply to this, 
the perception of agreement or disagreement between two 
objects of thought. In the case supposed, the genus or 
species, as described by those who have treated of the par- 
ticular science, is one of the objects contemplated ; the new 
specimen of plant or bird, as carefully observed and studied, 
is the other. These two objects of thought are compared ; 
the one is perceived to agree or not to agree with the other ; 
and on the ground of this agreement or disagreement, the 



176 THE SYNTHETIC PROCESS. 

classification is made. This perception of agreement in such 
a case is an act of judgment, so called. 

Not a distinct Faculty.— The form of mental activity 
now described, is hardly to be ranked as a distinct faculty 
of the mind, although it has been not unfrequently so treated 
by writers on mental science. It enters more or less fully 
into all mental operations ; like consciousness and attention, 
it is, to some extent, involved in the exercise of all the 
faculties, and cannot, therefore, be ranked, with propriety, 
as coordinate with them. It is not confined to the inves- 
tigations of science, but is an activity constantly exercised 
by all men. We have in our minds a multitude of general 
concej^tions, the result of previous observation and thought. 
Every moment some new object presents itself. With the 
quickness of thought, wo find its place among the concep- 
tions already in the mind : it agrees with this, it is incom- 
patible with that, it belongs with the one, it is excluded 
from the other. This is the form of most of our thinking ; 
indeed, no small part of our mental activity consists in this 
perception of agreements and disagreement?, and in the 
referring of some particular object of experience, some 
individual conception, to the class or general conception 
under whicli it properly belongs. The expression of such 
a judgment is a proposition. We think in propositions, 
which are only judgments mentally expressed. We dis- 
course in propositions, which are judgments orally expressed. 
We cannot frame a proposition which does not affirm, or 
deny, or call in question, romething of something. 

Judgment in relation to Knowledge. -Are judgment and 
knowledge identical? Is all knowledge only some form of 
judgment? So Kant, Tissot, and other writers of that 
school, would affirm. "Judgment is the princi])al o])eratiou 
of the mind, since it is concerned in all knowledge properly 
so called." "All our knowledges are judgments. To know, 
is to distinguish, and to distinguish, is at once to affirm, and 
to deny." Such was also Dr. Iveid's doctrine, in opposition 



THE SYIJTTHETIC PROCESS. 177 

to Locke, who distinguished between knowledge and judg- 
ment. Eeid, on the contrary, regards knowledge as only 
one class of judgments, namely, those about which we are 
most positive and certain. According to this yiew, judg- 
ment seems to cover the whole field of mental activity. Sir 
William Hamilton thus regards it. We cannot even expe- 
rience a sensation, he'maintains, without the mental affirma- 
tion or judgment that we are thus and thus affected. 

Common Speech distinguishes them. — It must be ad- 
mitted, however, that in common use there is a distinction 
between knowing and judging, the one implying the com- 
parative certainty of the thing known, the other implying 
some room and ground for doubt, the existence of opinion 
and belief, rather than of positive knowledge. The word 
itself, both in its primitive signification, and its derivation, 
indicating, as it does, the decision by legal tribunal of 
doubtful cases, favors this usage. That an exercise of 
judgment is, strictly speaking, involved in all knowledge, 
is, ncA^ertheless true, since, to know that a thing is thus 
and thus, and not otherwise, is to distinguish it from other 
things, and that is to judge. 



§ III -HISTORICAL SKETCH. 
The Realist and Nominalist Controversy. 

The Question at Issue.— No question has been more 
earnestly and even more bitterly discussed, in the whole 
history of philosophical inquiry, than the point at issue be- 
tween the Eealist and Nominalist, as to what is the precise 
object of thought when we form an abstract general concep- 
tion. When I use the term 7nan, for example, is it a mere 
name, and nothing more, or is there a real existence corre- 
sponding to that name, or is it neither a mere name on the 
one hand, nor, on the other, a real existence, but a con- 
ception of my own mind, which is the object of thought ? 



178 THE SYNTHETIC PROCESS. 

These thrcG answers can be made, these three doctrines 
held, and essentially only these three. Each has been actu- 
ally maintained with great ability and acuteness. Tlie 
names by which the three doctrines are respectively desig- 
nated are, Kealisra, Nominalism, and Conceptualism. 

Early History of Realism. — Of these doctrines, the 
former, Realism, was the first to develop itself. To say 
nothing of the ancients, we find traces of it in modern 
philosophy, as early as the ninth century. Indeed, it would 
seem to have been the prevalent doctrine, though not clearly 
and sharply defined; a belief, as Tissot has well expressed 
it, "spontaneous, blind, and without self-consciousness." 
John Scotus Erigena, and St. Anselm, Archbishop of Can- 
terbury, both philosophers of note, together with many 
otliersof less distinction, in the ninth, tenth, and eleventh 
centuries, were prominent Realists. The Platonic view 
may, in fact, be said to have prevailed down to that x^eriod. 
The early fathers of the Christian Church were strongly 
tinged with Platonism, and the Realistic theory accordingly 
very naturally engrafted itself upon the philosophy of the 
middle ages. The logical and the ontological, existence as 
mere thought of the mind, and existence as reality, were 
not distinguished by the leading minds of those centuries. 
The reality of the thought as thought, and the reality of 
an actual existence, corresponding to that thought, were 
confounded the one with the other. As the rose of which 
I conceive has existence apart from my conception, so man, 
plant, tree, animal, are realities, and not mere conceptions 
of tlie mind. 

Rise of Nominalism. — It was not till nearly the close of 
the eleventh century, that the announcement of the oppo- 
site doctrine was distinctly made, in o])position to the preva- 
lent views. This was done by Roscelinus, who maintained 
that universal and general ideas have no objective reality ; 
that the only reality is that of the individuals comprised 
under these genera; that there are no such existences as 



I 



THE SYNTHETIC PROCESS. 179 

man, animal, beauty, virtue, etc. ; that generality is only a 
pure form given by the mind to the matter of its ideas, a 
pure abstraction, a mere name. 

In this we have the opposite extreme of Realism. If the 
Realist went too far in affirming the objective reality of his 
conception, the Nominalist erred on the other hand in 
overlooking its subjective reality as a mode or state of the 
mind, and reducing it to a mere name. 

Dispute becomes theological.— The dispute now, unfor- 
tunately, but almost inevitably, became theological. The 
Realist accused the Nominalist of virtually denying the doc- 
trine of the Trinity, inasmuch as, according to him, the idea 
of Trinity is only an abstraction, and there is no Being cor- 
responding to that idea. To this, Roscelinus replied, with 
at least equal force and truth, that on the same ground the 
Realist denied the doctrine of divine unity, by holding a doc- 
trine utterly incompatible with it. Roscelinus, however, 
was defeated, if not in argument, at least by numbers and 
authority, and was condemned by council at the close of 
the eleventh century. 

Rise of Conceptualism. — It was about this time, that 
Abelard, pupil of Roscelinus, proposed a modified view of 
the matter, avoiding the extreme position both of the 
Realist and the Nominalist party, and allowing the suhjec- 
tive, but not the objective reality, of general ideas. This is 
substantially the doctrine of Conceptualism. The general 
abstract idea of man, rose, mountain, etc., has indeed no 
existence or reality as an external object, nor is there 
among external objects any thing corresponding to this 
idea ; but it has, nevertheless, a reality and existence as 
a thought, a conception of my mind. 

Prevalence of Realism during the twelfth and thirteenth 
Centuries. — The doctrine, as thus modified, gained some 
prevalence, but was condemned by successive councils and 
by the Pope. Sustained by such authority, as well as by 
the names of men greatly distinguished for learning and 



180 THE ANALYTIC I' II O C E b S . 

philosophy, Kcalism prevailed over its antagonists during 
the latter part of the twelfth and the whole of the thir- 
teenth century. The fourteenth witnessed again the rise 
and spread of the Conce])tualist theory, under the leader- 
ship of Occam. The dispute was bitter, leading to strife 
and even blood. 

Later History of the Discussion.— In the seventeenth 
century \vc lind Hobbes, llanic, and Berkley advocating 
the doctrine of the Nominalists, Avhile Price maintains the 
side of Realism. Locke and Reid were Conceptualists, 
Stewart a Nominalist. 



CHAPTEB IL 

THE ANALYTIC PROCESS-REASONING. 

Relation to the Synthetic Process.— We have thus far 
considered that form or process of the reflective faculty, Ijy 
which we combine the elements of individual complex con- 
ceptions, to form general conceptions and classes, on the 
basis of perceived agreements and differences. This we 
have termed the synthetic process. The divisive or ana- 
lytic process remains to be considered. This, as the name 
denotes, is, so far as regards the method of procedure, the 
opposite of the former. We no longer put together, but 
take apart, no longer combine the many to form one, but 
from the genci'al complex whole, as already formed and 
announced, we evolve the particular which lies included in 
it. This process comprehends Avhat is generally called 
analysis, and also reasoning. 

In discussing this most important mental process, we shall 
have occasion to treat more particularly of its nature^ its 
forms, and its modes. 



I 



THE AK A LYTIC PROCESS. 181 

§I-THE NATURE OF THE PROCESS. 

Conceptions often Complex. — It was remai-ked,, in speak- 
ing of our conceptions, that many of them are complex. 
My notion of a table, for example, is that of an object 
possessing certain qualities, as form, size, weight, color, 
hardness, each of which qualities is known to me by a 
distinct act of perception, if not by a distinct sense, and 
each of which is capable, accordingly, of being distinctly, 
and by itself, an object of thought or conception. The 
understanding combines these several conceptions, and 
thus forms the complex notion of a table. The notion 
thus formed, is neither more nor less than the aggregate, 
or combination of the several elementary conceptions 
already indicated. When I am called on to define my 
complex conception, I can only specify these several ele- 
mentary notions which go to make up my idea of the table. 
I can say it is an object round, or square, of such or such 
magnitude, that it is of such or such material, of this or 
that color, and designed for such and such uses. 

Virtual Analysis of complex Conceptions. — Now when 
I affirm that the table is round, I state one of the several 
qualities of the object so called, one of the several parts of 
the complex notion. It is a partial analysis of that complex 
conception. I separate from the whole, one of its component 
parts, and then affirm that it sustains the relation of a part 
to the comprehensive whole. The separation is a virtual 
analysis. The affirmation is an act of judgment expressed 
in the form of a proposition. Every proposition is, in fact, a 
species of synthesis, and implies the previous analysis of the 
conception, or comprehensive whole, whose component parts 
are thus brought together. Thus, when I say snow is white, 
man is mortal, the earth is round, I simply affirm of the 
object designated, one of the qualities which go to make up 
my conception of that object. Every such statement or 
proposition involves an analysis of the complex conception 



182 THE ANALYTIC P li O C E S S . 

which forms the subject of the proposition, while the thing 
predicated or affirmed is, tliat tlie (piality designated — the 
result of such analysis^s one of the parts constituting 
that complex whole. 

Reasoning, what. — Reasoning is simply a series of such 
propositions following in consecutive order, in which this 
analysis is carried out more or less minutely. Thus, when 
I affirm that man is mortal, I resolve my complex notion of 
man into its component parts, among which I find the attri- 
bute of mortality, and this attribute I then proceed to affirm 
of the subject, man. I sim})ly evolve, and distinctly an- 
nounce, what was involved in the term man. But this 
term expresses not merely a com])lex, but a general notion. 
Eesolving it as such into its individual elements, I find it 
to comprehend among the rest, a certain person, Socrates, 
e, g., and the result of this analysis I state in the propo- 
sition, Socrates is a man. But on the principle that what 
is true of a class must be true of the individuals compos- 
ing it, it follows that the mortality already predicated of the 
class, man, is an attribute of the individual, Socrates. When 
I affirm, then, that Socrates is mortal, I announce, in 
reality, only what was virtually implied in the first propo- 
sition — man is mortal. I have analyzed the complex gen- 
eral conception, man, have found involved in it the par- 
ticular conception, mortal, and the individual conception, 
Socrates, and by a subsequent synthesis have brought 
together these results in the proposition, Socrates is mor- 
tal, a proposition which sustains to the affirmation, man is 
mortal, the simple relation of a part to the whole. 

Reasoning and Analysis, how related. — This analytic 
])roccss, as ap})lied to propositions, for the purpose of 
evolving from a complex general statement, whatever is 
involved or virtually contained in it, is called reasoning; 
as applied not to propositions, but to simple conceptions 
merely, it is known as simple analysis. The psychological 
process is, in either case, one and the same. 



I 



THE i\:'rALYTIC PROCESS. 183 

Illustration by Dr. Brown. — Dr. Brown has well illus- 
trated the nature of the reasoning process in its relation to 
the general proposition with which we set out, by reference 
to the germ enclosed in the bulb of the plant. '' The truths 
at which we arrive, by repeated intellectual analysis, may be 
said to resemble the premature plant which is to be found 
enclosed in that which is itself enclosed in the bulb, or seed 
which we dissect. We must carry on our dissection more 
and more minutely to arrive at each new germ ; but we do 
arrive at one after the other, and when our dissection is 
obliged to stop, we have reason to suppose that still finer 
instruments, and still finer eyes, might prosecute the dis- 
covery almost to infinity. It is the same in the discovery 
of the truths of reasoning. The stage at which one inquirer 
stops is not the limit of analysis in reference to the object, 
but the limit of the analytic power of the individual. In- 
quirer after inquirer discovers truths which were involved 
in truths formerly admitted by us, without our being able to 
perceive what was comprehended in our admission. * * * 
There may be races of beings, at least we can conceive of 
races of beings, whose senses would enable them to perceive 
the ultimate embryo plant enclosed in its innumerable series 
of preceding germs ; and there may, perhaps, be created pow- 
ers of some higher order, as we know that there is one Eter- 
nal Power, able to feel, in a single comprehensive thought, 
all those truths, of which the generations of mankind are 
able, by successive analyses, to discover only a few, that are, 
perhaps, to the great truths which they contain, only as the 
flower, which is blossoming before us, is to that infinity of 
future blossoms enveloped in it, with which, in ever-renc- 
vated beauty, it is to adorn the summers of other ages." 

Inquiry suggested. — But here the inquiry may arise. 
How happens it that, if the reasonings which conduct to the 
profoundest and most important truths, are but successive 
and continued analyses of our previous conceptions, wx 
should have admitted those preceding truths and concep- 



184 THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 

tions without a suspicion of the results involved in them ? 
The reason is probably to be found, as Dr. Brown suggests, 
in the fact that in the process of generalizing, we form 
classes and orders before distinguishing the minuter varie- 
ties; we are struck with some obvious points of agreement 
which lead us to give a common place and a c^mnlon term 
to the objects of such resemblance, and this ^ery circum- 
stance of agreement which we perceive, may involve other 
circumstances which we do not at the time perceive, but 
which are disclosed on minute and subsequent attention. 
"It is as if we knew the situations and bearings of all the 
great cities in Europe, and could lay down, with most 
accurate precision, their longitude and latitude. To know 
thus much, is to know that a certain space must intervene 
between them, but it is not to know what that space con- 
tains. The process of reasoning, in the discoveries which 
it gives, is like that topographic inquiry which fills up the 
intervals of our map, placing here a forest, there a long 
extent of plains, and beyond them a still longer range of 
mountains, till we see, at last, innumerable objects con- 
nected with eacli otlier in that space which before pre- 
sented to us only a few points of mutual bearing." 

The Position further argued from the Nature of the 
Syllogism. — That all deductive reasoning, at least, is essen- 
tially what has noAV been described, an analytic process, is 
evident from the fact that the syllogism to which all such 
argument may be reduced, is based upon the admitted prin- 
ciple that whatever is true of the class, is true of all the in- 
dividuals comprehended under it. Something is affirmed of 
a given class ; an individual or individuals are then affirmed 
to belong to that class ; and on the strength of the prin- 
ciple just stated, it is thereupon affirmed that what was pre- 
dicated of the class is also true of the individual. Nothing, 
can be plainer than that in this process we are working from 
the given whole to the comprehended parts, from the 
complex conception stated at the outset, to the truths that 



THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 185 

lie hidden and involved in it. In other words, it is a process 
of analysis which we thus perform, and as all reasoning, 
when scientifically stated, is brought under this form, it 
follows that all reasoning is essentially analytic in its nature. 

Inductive Reasoning no Exception.— It may be supposed 
that the inductive method of reasoning is an exception to 
this rule, inasmuch us we proceed, in that case, not from the 
general to the particular, but the reverse. Whatever m.ay 
be true of deduction, is not induction essentially a synthetic 
process ? So it might, at first, appear. I have observed, 
for example, that several animals of a particular species, 
sheep, for instance, chew the cud. Having observed this 
in several instances, I presently conclude that the same is 
true of the whole class to which these several individuals be- 
long, in other words, that all sheep are ruminant. Extend- 
ing my observation further, I find other species of animals 
likewise chewing the cud. I observe, moreover, that every 
animal, possessing this characteristic, is distinguished by 
the circumstance of having horns and cloven hoofs; I find, 
so far as my observation goes, the two things always associ- 
ated, and hence am led, on observing the one, immediately 
to infer the other. The proposition that was at the outset 
particular, now becomes general, viz., all animals that have 
horns and cloven hoofs are ruminant. Is the conclusion 
at which I tluis arrive, involved in the premiss with which 
I start ? Is the fact that all horned and cloven-footed 
animals are ruminant, implied and contained in the fact 
that 1^07716 horned and cloven-footed animals, that is, so 
many as I have observed, are so ? 

Even here the Evidence of the Conclusion lies in the 
Premiss. — A little reflection will convince us that these 
questions are to be answered in the affirmative. If the con- 
clusion be itself correct and true, then it is a truth involved 
in the previous proposition ; for whatever evidence I have 
of the truth of my conclusion, that all animals of this sort 
are ruminant, is manifestly derived from, and therefore 



1 86 THE ANALYTIC PRO (' I] S S . 

contained in, tlic fact iliat such as 1 have observed are so. 
I have no other evidence in the case supposed. If this 
evidence is insutHcient, then the conchision is not estab- 
lislied. It' it be sufficient, then the conclusion which it 
establishes, is derived from and involved in it. 

The argument fully and scientifically stated, runs thus : 

A, B, C, animals observed, are ruminant. But A, B, C, 
represent the class Z to which they belong. 

Tlicrefore, class Z is ruminant. 

Admitting now the correctness of my observation in re- 
spect to A, B, C, that they are ruminant, the argument 
turns entirely upon the second proposition that A, B, 0, 
represent the class Z, so that what is true of them in this 
respect, is true of the whole class. If A, B, 0, do repre- 
sent the class Z, then to say that A, B, 0, are ruminant, is 
to say that Z is so. The one is contained in the other. If 
they do not, then the conclusion is itself groundless, and 
tliere is no occasion to inqnire in what it is contained, or 
whether it is contained in any thing. It is no longer a 
valid argument, and therefore cannot be brought in evi- 
dence that some reasoning is not analytic. 

What sort of Propositions constitute Reasoning. — It is 
hardly necessary to state that not any and every series of 
propositions constitute reasoning. The propositions must 
be consecutive, following in a certain order, and not only 
so, but must be in such a manner connected with and re- 
lated to each other, that the truth of the final proposition 
shall be manifest from the propositions which precede. To 
affirm that snow is white, that gold is more valuable than 
silver, and that virtue is the only sure road to ha])piness, i^ 
to state a series of propositions, each one of winch is true, 
but which have no such relation to each other as to consti- 
tute an argument. The truth of the last proposition does 
not follow from the truth of the preceding ones. 



THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 187 

§ IL-RELATION OF JUDGMENT AND REASONING. 

Judgment Synthetic, Reasoning Analytic. — The relation 
of judgment and reasoning to each other becomes evident 
from what has been said of the nature of the reasoning 
process. Judgment is essentially synthetic. Reasoning, 
essentially analytic. ^ The former combines, affirms one 
thing to be true of another ; the latter divides, declares one 
truth to be contained in another. All reasoning involves 
judgment, but all judgment is not reasoning. The several 
propositions that constitute a chain of reasoning, are so 
many distinct judgments. Reasoning is the evolution or 
derivation of one of these judgments, viz., the conclusion, 
from another, viz., the premiss. It is the process by which, 
we arrive at some of our judgments. 

Mr. Stewart's View. — Reasoning is frequently defined as 
a combination of judgments, in order to reach a result not 
otherwise obvious. Mr. Stewart compares our several judg- 
ments to the separate blocks of stone w^bich the builder has 
prepared, and which lie upon the ground, upon any one of 
which a person may elevate himself a slight distance from 
the ground ; wdiile these same judgments, combined in a 
process of reasoning, he likens to those same blocks con- 
verted now, by the builder's art, into a grand staircase lead- 
ing to the summit of some lofty tow^r. It is a simple com- 
bination of separate judgments, nor is there any thing in the 
last step of the series differing at all in its nature, says Mr. 
Stewart, from the first step. Every step is precisely like 
every other, and the process of reaching the top is simply 
a repetition of the act by which the first step is reached. 

This View called in Question. — It is evident that this 
position is not in accordance with the general view whicli 
we have maintained of the nature of the reasoning process. 
According to this view, reasoning is not so much a com- 
bination as an analysis of judgments; nor is the last of the 
several propositions in a chain of argument of the same 



188 T U E ANALYTIC P K O C E S S . 

nature i)recisely us the first. It is, like the first, a jiulg- 
meut, but unlike the first, it is u particular sort of judg- 
ment, viz., an inference or conclusion, a judgment involved 
in and derived i'roni the former. 

In the series of propositions, A is B, B is C, therefore A 
is C, the act of mind by which I perceive that A is B, or 
that B is 0, is not of the same nature with that by which 
I perceive the consequent truth that A is C ; no mere 
repetition of the former act would amount to the latter. 
There is a new sort of judgment in the latter case, a de- 
duction from the former. In order to reach it, I must not 
merely perceive that A is B, and that B is C, but must 
also perceive the connection of the two propositions, and 
what is involved in them. It is only by bringing together 
in the mind these two propositions, that I perceive the new 
truth, not otherwise obvious, that A is C, and the state or 
act of mind involved in this latter step seems to me a dif- 
ferent one from that by which I reach the former judg- 
ments. 

§ III.-DIFFERENT KINDS OF REASONING. 

Two Kinds of Truth. — The most natural division is that 
according to the subject-matter, or the materials of the 
work. The truths which constitute the material of our 
reasoning process are of two kinds, necessary and con- 
tingent. That two straight lines cannot enclose a space, 
that the whole is greater than any one of its parts, are ex- 
amples of the former. That the earth is an oblate spheroid, 
moves in an elliptical orbit, and is attended by one satellite, 
are exa!ni)les of tiie latter. 

The Difference lies in what. — The difference is not that 
one is any less certain than the other, but of the one you 
cannot conceive the opposite, of the other you can. That 
three times three arc nine, is no more true and certain, than 
that Ca3sar invaded Britain, or that the sun will rise to-mor- 
row a few minutes earlier or later than to-day. But the one 



li 



THE A2TA LYTIC PROCESS. 189 

admits of the contrary supposition without absurdity^ tho 
other does not ; the one is contingent, the other necessary. 
Now these two classes of truths, differing as they do, in this 
important particular, admit of, and require, very different 
methods of reasoning. The one class is susceptible of dernon- 
stration, the other admits only that species of reasoning- 
called idrohabh or moral. It must be remembered, however, 
that when we thus speak we do not mean that this latter 
class of truths is deficient in proof; the word probable is not, 
as thus used, opposed to certainty^ but only to demonstra-r- 
tion. That there is such a city as Rome, or London, is just 
as certai}i as that the several angles of a triangle are equal 
to two right-angles; but the evidence which substantiates 
the one is of a very different nature from that of the other. 
The one can be demonstrated, the other cannot. The one 
is an eternal and necessary truth, subject to no contingence, 
no possibility of the opposite. The other is of the nature 
of an event taking place in time, and dependent on the will 
of man, and might, without any absurdity, be supposed not 
to be as it is. 

I. Demonstrative Reasokikg. 

Field of Demonstrative Reasoning.-^Its field, as we have 
seen, is necessary truth. It is limited, therefore, in its 
range, takes in only things abstract, conceptions rather 
than realities, the relations of things rather than things 
themselves, as existences. It is confined principally, if not 
entirely, to mathematical truths. 

No degrees of Evidence. — There are no degrees of evi- 
dence or certainty in truths of this nature. Every step 
follows irresistibly from the preceding. Every conclusion is 
inevitable. One demonstration is as good as another, so 
far as regards the certainty of the conclusion, and one is as 
good as a thousand. It is quite otherwise in probable 
reasoning. 

Two Modes of Procedure. — In demonstration, we may 



190 THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 

proceed directly, or indirectly; as, e.g., m case of two tri- 
angles to be proved equal. I may, by super-position, prove 
this directly; or I may suppose them unequal, and proceed 
to show the absurdity of such a supposition ; or I may make 
a number of suppositions, one or the other of which must 
be true, and then show that all but the one which I Avish to 
establish are false. 

Force of Mathematical Reasoning. — The question arises 
whence the peculiar force of mathematical, in distinction 
from other reasoning ? — a fact observed by every one, but 
not easily explained : how happens this, and on what does it 
depend, this irresistible cogency which compels our assent? 
Is it owing to the pains taken to define the terms eniplo3'ed, 
and the strict adherence to those definitions ? I think not; 
for other sciences approximate to mathematics in this, but 
not to the cogency of its reasoning. The explanation given 
by Stewart is certainly plausible. He ascribes the peculiar 
force of demonstrative reasoning to the fact, that the first 
principles from which it sets out, i. e., its definitions, are 
purely hypothetical, involving no basis or admixture of facts, 
and that by simply reasoning strictly upon these assumed 
hypotheses the conclusions follow irresistibly. The same 
thing would happen in any other science, could we (as we 
cannot) construct our definitions to suit ourselves, instead 
of proceeding upon/rtc/s as our data. The same view is 
ably maintained by other writers. 

If this be so, the superior certainty of mathematical, 
over all other modes of reasoning, if it does not quite 
vanish, becomes of much less consequence than is generally 
supposed. Its truths are necessary in no other sense than ■ 
that certain definitions being assumed, certain suppositions 
made, then the certain other things follow, which is no 
more than may be said of any science. 

Confirmation of this View.— It may be argued, as a con- 
firmation of this view, that whenever mathematical reason- 
ing comes to be applied to sciences involving facts either 






THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 191 

as the data, or as objects of inyestigation, where it is no 
longer possible to proceed entirely upon hypothesis, as, e.g., 
when you apply it to mechanics, physics, astronomy, prac- 
tical geometry, etc., then it ceases to be demonstrative, 
and becomes merely probable reasoning. 

Mathematical reasoning supposed by some to be iden- 
tical. — It has been much discussed whether all mathematical 
reasoning is merely identical, asserting, in fact, nothing more 
than that «=«; that a given thing is equivalent to itself, 
capable of being resolved at last into merely this. This 
view has been maintained by Leibnitz, himself one of the 
greatest mathematicians, and by many others. It was for a 
long time the prevalent doctrine on the Continent. Condillac 
applies the same to all reasoning, and Hobbes seems to have 
had a similar view, i.e., that all reasoning is only so much 
addition or subtraction. Against this view Stewart con- 
tends that even if the propositions themselves might be 
represented by the formula a=^a, it does not follow that 
the various steps of reasoning leading to the conclusion 
amount merely to that. A paper written in cipher may be 
said to be identical with the same paper as interpreted ; 
but the evidence on which the act of deciphering proceeds, 
amounts to something more than the perception of identity. 
And further, he denies that the propositions are identical, 
c.^., even the simple proposition 2x2:^:4. 2 x 2 express 
one set of quantities, and 4 expresses another, and the 
proposition that asserts their equivalence is not identical ; 
it is not saying that the same quantity is equal to itself, 
but that two different quantities are equivalent. 

II. Probable Eeaso:n^ii^g. 

Not opposed to Certainty. — It must be borne in mind, 
as already stated, that the probability now intended is not 
opposed to certainty. That Caesar invaded Britain is cer- 
tain, but the reasoning which goes to establish it, is only 
probable reasoning, because the thing to be proved is an 



1 92 THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 

event in history, contingent therefore, and not capable of 
demonstration. 

Sources of Evidence. — Evidence of this kind of trnths is 
derived from three sources: 1. Testimony; 2. Experience ; 
3. Analogy. 

1. Evidence of Testimony, 

In itself probable. — This is, h priori, jyrobablc. We are 
so coni3tituted as to be inclined to believe testimony, and it 
is only when the incredibility of the witness has been ascer- 
tained by sufficient evidence, that we refuse our assent. 
The child believes whatever is told him. The man, long 
conversant with human affairs, becomes 'vvary, cautious, 
suspicious, incredulous. It is remarked by Reid that the 
evidence of testimony does not depend altogetber on the 
character of the witness. If there be no motive for decep- 
tion, especially if there be weighty reasons why he should 
speak truth, or if the narrative be in itself probable and con- 
sistent, and tallies with circumstances, it is in such cases to be 
received even from those not of unimpeachable integrity. 

Limits of Belief. — What are the limits of belief in testi- 
mony ? Suppose the character of witnesses to be good, tlie 
narrative self-consistent, the testimony concurrent of vari- 
ous witnesses, explicit, positive, full, no motive for decep- 
tion ; are we to believe in that case whatever may be testi- 
fied ? One thing is certain, we do in fact believe in such 
cases ; we are so constituted. Such is the law of our nature. 
Nor can it be shown irrational to yield such assent. It has 
been shown by an eminent mathematician that it is always 
possible to assign a number of independent witnesses, so M 
great that the falsity of their concurrent testinfiony shall be " 
mathematically more improbable, and so more incredible, 
than the trutli of tlieir statement, be it what it may. 

Case supposed. — Suppose a considerable number of men 
of undoubted veracity, should, without concert, and agree- 
iiig in thtt main as to particulars, all testify, one by one, I hat 



I 



THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 193 

they witnessed, on a given day and hour, some very strange 
occurrence, as, e. gr, a ball of fire, or a form of angelic 
brightness, boyering in the air, over this building, or any 
like unwonted and inexplicable phenomenon. Are w'c to 
withhold or yield our assent? I reply, if the number of 
witnesses is large, and the testimony concurrent, and with- 
out concert, and no motive exists for deception, and they 
are men of known integrity, especially if they are sane and 
sober men, not easily imposed upon, I see not how w^e can 
reasonably withhold assent. Their testimony is to be taken 
as true testimony, i.e., they did really witness the phenom- 
enon described. The proof becomes stronger or weaker 
in proportion as the circumstances now mentioned coexist 
to a greater or less extent, i. e., in proportion as there arc 
more or fewer of these concurring and corroborating cir- 
cumstances. If there was but a single witness, or if a num- 
ber of the witnesses were not of the best character, or if 
there were some possible motive for deception, or if they 
were not altogether agreed as to important features of the 
case, so far the testimony w^ould of course be weakened. 
But we may always suppose a case so strong that the falsity 
of the witnesses would be a greater miracle than the truth 
of the story. This is the case with the testimony of the 
witnesses to our Saviour's miracles. 

Distinction to be made. — An important distinction is 
here to be noticed between the falsity, and the incorrectness, 
of the witness, between his intention to deceive, and his be- 
ing himself deceived. He may have seen precisely what he 
describes ; he may be mistaken in thinking it to have been 
an angel, or a spirit, or a ball of fire. Just as in the case 
of certain illusions of sense — an oar in the water — the eye 
correctly reports what it sees, but the judgment is in error, 
in thinking the oar to be crooked. So the witness may be 
true, and the testimony true in the case of a supposed 
miracle or other strange phenomenon ; the appearance may 
have been just as stated, but the question may still be raised, 
9 



194 THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 

were tlic witnesses correct, in tlicir inference, or judgment, 
as to what was the cause of the said appearance, as to what 
it was that tliey saw or heard ? 

This must be decided by the rules that govern the pro- 
ceedings of sensible men iu common affairs of life. 

2. Reasoning from Experience. 

Induction as distinguished from Deduction. — This is 
called induction^ the peculiar characteristic of which, in dis- 
tinction from deductive reasoning is that it begins with indi- 
vidual cases, and from them infers a general conclusion, 
whereas, the deductive method starts with a general propo- 
sition, and infers a particular one. From the proposition all 
men are mortal, the syllogism infers that Socrates is mortal. 
From the fact that Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, Pliny, Caesar, 
Cicero, and any number of other individuals, are mortal, 
induction leads you to conclude that all men are so. The 
premises here are facts occurring within the range of obser- 
vation and experience, and the reasoning proceeds on the 
principle of the general uniformity of nature and her laws. 
Induction, then, is, in other words, the process of inferring 
that what we know to be true in certain observed cases, is 
also true, and will be found to be true, in other like cases 
which have not fallen under our observation. 

Basis of this Mode of reasoning. — The groundwork of 
induction, as I have already said, is the axiom or universal 
proposition of the uniformity of nature. Take this away, 
and all reasoning from induction or experience fails at once. 
This is a truth which the human mind is, by its nature and 
constitution, always disposed to proceed upon. It may not 
be embodied in the shape of a definite proposition, but it is 
tacitly assumed and acted upon by all men. How came we 
by this general truth. Is it intuitive? So say the disciples 
of certain schools, so says Cousin, and so say the Scotch 
metaphysicians, and tlie German. Others, however, con- 
tend that it is itself an induction, as truly as anv other, h 



THE AKALYTIC PROCESS. 195 

truth learned from experience and observation, and by no 
means tlie first, but rather amoug the latest of our induc- 
tions. Without stopping to discuss this question, it is 
sufficient for our purpose to notice the fact, that this 
simple truth is uniyersally admitted, and constitutes the 
basis of all reasoning from experience. 

Incorrect Mode of ^Statement. — The proposition is some- 
times incorrectly stated, as, e.g.^ that the future will resemble 
the past. This is not an adequate expression" of the great 
truth to which we refer. It is not that the future merely 
will resemble the past merely, but that the unknown will 
resemble the known. The idea of time is not properly 
connected with the subject. That which is unknown may 
lie in the future, it may lie in the present or the past. 

Limits of this Belief. — An important question here arises. 
What are the limits, if limits there are, to this belief of 
the uniformity of nature, and to the reasoning based on 
that belief ? Are we warranted, in all cases, in inferring 
ihat the unknown will be, in similar circumstances, like 
the known — that what we have found to be true in five, 
ten, or fifty cases, and without exception, will be univer- 
sally true ? We do reason thus very generally. Such is the 
tendency of the mind, its nature. Is it correct procedure ? 
Is it certain that our experience, though it be uniform and 
unvaried, is the universal experience ? If not, if limits 
there are to this method of reasoning, what are they ? 

Erroneous Induction. — The inhabitants of Siam have 
never seen water in any other than a liquid or gaseous 
form. They conclude that water is never solid. The in- 
habitants of central Africa may be supposed never to have 
seen or heard of a white man. They infer that all men are 
black. Are these correct inductions ? No ; for they lead 
to false conclusions. They are built on insufficient foun- 
dations. There was not a sufficiently wide observation of 
facts to justify so wide a conclusion. Evidently, we cannot 
infer from our own non-observation of exceptions, that 



196 THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 

exceptions do not exist. We must first know that if there 
were exceptions we should have known them. In both the 
cases now supposed, this was overlooked. The African has 
only seen men who were natives of Africa. There may be, 
in other countries, races that lie has not seen, and has had 
no opportunity to see. The world may be full of excep- 
tions to this general rule, and yot he not know it. Correct 
induction in his case would be tliis: I have seen many 
men, natives of central Africa, and they have all been 
black men, without exception. I conclude, therefore, that 
all the natives of central Africa are black. In a word, it 
is only under like circumstances that we can infer the 
uniformity of nature, and so reason inductively from the 
known to the unknown. 

Superstitious Belief of the Ancients. — The tendency of 
men to believe in the universal permanence of nature, and, 
on that ground, to generalize from insufficient data, is illus- 
trated in the superstitious and widely prevalent idea among 
the ancients, and some of the modems also, of grand cycles 
of events extending both to the natural and the moral world. 
According to this idea, the changes of the atmosphere, and 
all other natural phenomena, as observed at any time, would, 
after a periotl, return again in the same order of succession 
as before ; storms, and seasons, and times, being subject to 
some regular law. It was supposed, in fact, '' that all the 
events" — to use the language of one of these theorists — 
*' within the immeasurable circuit of tlie universe, are the 
successive evolutions of an extended f cries, which, at the 
return of some vast period, repeats its eternal round during 
the endless flux of time." This is a sufficiently grand 
induction, startling in its sweep and range of thought, but 
requiring for its data a somewhat v/ider observation of 
facts than can fall to the lot of short-lived and short-sighted 
man, during the few years of his narrow sojourn, and pil- 
grimage, ill a world like this. 



THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 197 

3. Reasoning from Aiialogy. 

Meaning of the term Analogy. — This word, analogy, is 
used with great variety of meaning, and with much vague- 
ness, therefore. It properly denotes any sort of resem- 
blance, whether of relation or otherwise; and the argument 
from analogy is an argument from resemblance, an argument 
of an inductive nature, but not amounting to complete in- 
duction. A resembles B in certain respects ; therefore it 
probably resembles it, also, in a certain other respect ; such 
is the argument from analogy. A resembles B in such and 
such properties, but these are always found connected with 
a certain other property : therefore A resembles B also in 
regard to that property; such is the argument from induc- 
tion. Every resemblance which can be pointed out between 
A and B creates a further and increased probability that the 
resemblance holds also in respect to the property which is 
the object of inquiry. If the two resembled each other in 
all their properties, there would be no longer any doubt as 
to this one, but a positive certainty, and the more resem- 
blances in other respects so much the nearer we come to 
certainty respecting the one that happens to be in question. 

Illustration of this Principle. — It was observed by New- 
ton, that the diamond possessed a very high refractive 
power compared with its density. The same thing he knew 
to be true of combustible substances. Hence, he conjectured 
that the diamond was combustible. He conjectured the 
same thing, and for the same reason, of water, i. e., that it 
contains a combustible ingredient. In both instances, he 
guessed right — reasoning from analogy. 

Further Illustration of Reasoning from Analogy. —Rea- 
soning from analogy, I might infer that the moon is in- 
habited, thus : The earth is inhabited— land, sea, and air, 
are all occupied with life. But the moon resembles the 
earth in figure, relation to the sun, movement, opacit}^, etc. ; 
moreover, it has volcanoes as the earth has ; therefore, it is 



198 T II E A N A L Y T 1 C P K O C E S S . 

probably like the earth in tliis ether respect, that of being 
inhabited. To make this out by induction, I must show that 
the moon not only resembles the earth in these several 
respects, but that thej^e circumstances are in other cases 
observed to be connected with the one in question; thus, in 
other cases, bodies that are opaque, spherical, and moving;- 
in elliptical orbits, are known to be inhabited. The same 
thing is probably true then in all cases, and inasmuch as 
the moon has these murks, it is therefore inhabited. 

Counter Probability. — On the other hand, the points of 
dissimilarity create a counter probability, as, e. ^.,the moon 
has no atmosphere, no clouds, and therefore no water ; but 
air and water are, on our planet, essential to life ; the pre- 
sumption is, then, looking at these circumstances merely, 
that the moon is uninhabited. Nay, more: if life exists, 
then it must be under very dififerent conditions from those 
under wdiich it exists here. Evidentl}^ then, the greater 
the resemblance in other respects between the two planets, 
the less probability that they differ in this respect (i.e.y 
the mode of sustaining life), so that the resemblances 
already proved, become, themselves, presumptions agahist 
the supposition that the moon is inhabited. 

Amount of Probability. — The analogy and diversity, 
■»vhen they come thus into competition and the arguments 
from the one conflict ^vith those of the other, must be 
weighed against each other. The extent of the resem- 
blance, compared with the extent of the difference, gives 
the amount of probability on one side or the other, so far as 
these eUwenfs are kiiown. If any region lies unexplored, 
we can infer nothing with certainty or probability as to that. 
Suppose, then, that so far as we have had tlie means of 
observing, the resemblances are to the differences as four 
to one ; we conclude with a probability of four to one. that 
any given property of the one will be found to belong to 
the other. The chances are four out of five. 

Value of Analogical Reasoning. — The chief value of 



THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 199 

analogy, as regards science, however, is as a guide to con- 
jecture and to experiment ; and even a faint degree of 
analogical evidence ma}" be of great service in this way, by 
directing further inquiries into that channel, and so con- 
ducting to eventual probability, or even certainty. 

It is well remarked by Stewart, that the tendency of our 
nature is so to reasoA from analogy, that we naturally con- 
fide in it, as we do in the evidence of testimony. 

Liable to mislead. — It maist be confessed, however, that 
it is a species of reasoning likely to mislead in many cases. 
Its chief value, lies not in proving a position, but in rebut- 
ting objections ; it is good, not for assault, but defence. As 
thus used it is a powerful weapon in the hands of a skilful 
master. Such it was in Butler's hands. 

§ IV.-USE OF HYPOTHESES AND THEORIES IN 
REASONING. 

Theory, what. — The terms hypothesis and theory are 
often used interchangeably and loosely. Confusion is the 
result. It is difficult to define them accurately. 

Theory (from the Greek, 6eo)pta; Latin, theoria; French, 
theorie ; Italian, teoria ; from decjpeG), to perceive, see, 
contemplate) denotes properly any philosophical explana- 
tion of phenomena, any connected arrangement and state- 
ment of facts according to their bearing on some real or 
imaginary law. The facts, the phenomena, once known, 
proved, rest on independent evidence. Theory takes sur- 
vey of them as such, with special reference to the law 
which governs and connects them, whether that law be also 
known or merely conjectured. 

Hypothesis, what. — Hypothesis {vtto-tiOtjiu) denotes a 
gratuitous supposition or conjecture, in tJw absence of all 
positive knowledge as to what the law is that governs and 
connects the observed phenomena, or as to tlie cause which 
will account for them. 

Theory may or may not be Hypothesis. — Hypothesis is, '\\\ 



200 T n E ANALYTIC P U O (^ E S S . 

iis iiaUire, conjoctiinil, and therefore uncertain; has its de- 
grees of probability — no certaint}^ The moment the thing 
supposed is proved true, or verified, if it ever is, it ceases 
to be hypothesis. Tlieory, liowever, is not necessarily a 
matter of uncertainty. After the law or the cause is ascer- 
tained, fully known, and no longer a hypothesis at all, 
there may be still a theory about it ; a survey of the facts 
and phenomena, as they stand ali'ected by that law, or as 
accounted for by that cause. The motion of the planets in 
elliptical orbits, was originally matter of conjecture, of 
hypothesis. It is still matter of theory. 

Probability of Hypothesis. — The probability of a hypo- 
thesis is in proportion to the number of facts or phenomena, 
in the given case, which it will satisfactorily explain, in 
other words, account for. Of several hypotheses, that is the 
most probable which will account for the greatest number 
of the given phenomena -those which, if the hypothesis be 
true, ought to fall under it as their law. If it accounts for 
all tlic phenomena in the case, it is generally regarded as 
having established its claim to certainty. So Whewcll 
maintains. This, however, is not exactly the case. The hv- 
pothesis can be verified only by showing that the facts or 
phenomena in the case cannot possibly be accounted for on 
any other supposition, or result from any other cause ; not 
simply that they can be accounted for, or can result from 
this. This is well stated by Mill in his System of Philosophy. 
The hypothesis of the undulating movement of a subtle and 
all-pervading ether will account for many of the known 
phenomena of light; but it has never been shown, and in 
the nature of the case never can bo, probably, that no other 
hypothesis possible or supposablc will also account for them. 

Use of Hypotheses — As to the use of hypotheses in science, 
Reid's remarks are altogether too sweeping, and quite in- 
correct. It is not true that hypotheses lead to no valuable 
result in philosophy. Almost all discoveries were at first 
hypotheses, suppositions, lucky guesses, if you please to call 



THE AN'ALYTIC PROCESS. 201 

them so. The Oopernican theory that the earth revolves on 
its axis was a mere hypothesis at the outset. Kepler's theory 
of the elliptical orbits of the planets was such; he made and 
abandoned nineteen false ones before he hit the right. This 
discovery led to another — that the Eadius Vector of a planet 
describes equal areas in equal times. Newton never framed 
hypotheses, if we may, believe him. But his own grand dis- 
covery of the law of gravity as the central force of the system, 
depends for one of its steps of evidence on his previous dis- 
covery that the force of attraction varies as the inverse 
square of the distance, and this was suggested by him at 
first as a mere hypothesis ; he was able to verify it only by 
calling in the aid of Kepler's discovery of equal areas in equal 
times, which latter, as already stated, was itself the result of 
hypothesis. Had it not been for one hypothesis of New- 
ton, verified by the results of another hypothesis of Kepler, 
Newton could never have made his own discovery. 

A hypothesis, it must be remembered, is any supposi- 
tion, with or without evidence, made in order to deduce 
from it conclusions agreeable to known facts. If we succeed 
in doing this, we verify our hypothesis (nnless, indeed, it 
can be shown that some other hypothesis will equally well 
suit these facts), and our hypothesis, when verified, ceases 
to be longer a hypothesis, takes its place as known truth, 
and in turn serves to explain those facts which would, on the 
supposition of its truth, follow from it as a cause. It is 
simply a short-hand process of arriving at conclusions in 
science. Suppose the problem to be the one already named 
— to prove that the central force of the solar system is one 
and the same with gravity. Now it may not be easy, or even 
possible in some cases, to establish the first step or premiss in 
such a chain of reasoning. The inductions leading to it 
may not be forthcoming. Hypothesis steps in and supplies 
the deficiency, by substituting in place of the induction a 
supposition. Assuming that distant bodies attract each 
other with a power inversely as the square of the distance, 
9* 



202 THE A X A L Y T I r PROCESS. 

it proceeds on that supposition, and iirrives at the desired 
conclusion. 

In what Cases admissihle. — Now this method is always 
allowable, and strictly scientific, whenever it is possible to 
verify our hypothesis, i, e., in every case in which it is pos- 
sible to show that no law but the one assumed can lead to 
these same results; that no other hypothesis can accord with 
the facts. 

In the case supposed, it would not be possible to prove 
that the same movements might not follow from some other 
law than the one supposed. It is not certain, therefore, 
that the moving force of the solar system is identical with 
gravitation, merely because the latter would, if extended so 
far, produce the same results. In many other cases it is 
practicable ; indeed, in all cases where the inquiry is not to 
ascertain the cause, hut, the cause being already hnoion, to 
ascertain the law of its action. 

Even in cases where the inquiry is not of this nature, 
hypothesis is of use in the suggestion of future investiga- 
tions, and, as such, is frequently indispensable. 

View of Mr. Mill. — Nearly every thing which is now 
theory, was once hypothesis, says Mill. " The process of 
tracing regularity in any complicated, and, at first sight, con- 
fused set of appearances, is necessarily tentative : we begin 
by making any supposition, even a false one, to see what 
consequences will follow from it ; and by observing how 
these differ from the real phenomena we learn what correc- 
tions to make in our assumption. The simi^lest supposition 
which accords with any of the most obvious facts, is the 
best to begin with, because its consequences are the most 
easily traced. This rude hypothesis is then rudely cor- 
rected, and the operation repeated, until the deductive re- 
sults are at last made to tally with the phenomena. Let 
any one watch the manner in which he himself unravels 
any complicated mass of evidence ; let him observe how, for 
instance, he elicits the true hi^toiv of nnv occurrence from 



THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 203 

the involved statements of one or of many witnesses. He 
will find that he does not take all the items of evidence into 
his mind at once, and attempt to weave them together ; 
the human faculties are not equal to such an undertaking ; 
he extemporizes, from a few of the particulars, a first rude 
theory of the mode in which the facts took place, and then 
looks at the other statements, one by one, to try whether 
they can be reconciled with the provisional theory, or what 
corrections or additions it requires to make it square with 
them. In this way, which, as M. Comte remarks, has some 
resemblance to the methods of approximation of mathema^ 
ticians, we arrive by means of hypothesis at conclusions not 
hypothetical." 

§ V.-DIFFERENT FORMS OF, REASONING. 

It remains to treat briefly of the different forms of reason- 
ing, as founded in the laws of thought. 

How far these Forms fall within the Province of Psychol- 
ogy. — As there are different kinds or modes of reasoning, 
according to the difference of the subject-matter or material 
about which our reasoning is employed, so there are cer- 
tain general forms into which all reasoning may be cast, 
and which, according to the laws of thought, it naturally 
assumes. To treat specifically of these forms, their nature, 
use, and value, is the business of logic ; but, in so far as 
they depend upon the laws of thought, and are merely 
modes of mental activity as exercised in reasoning, they 
are to be considered, in connection with other phenomena 
of the mind, by the psychologist. Briefly to describe these 
forms, and then to consider their value, is all that I now 
propose. I begin with the proposition, as the starting 
point in every process of reasoning. 

I. Aia"ALYSIS OF THE PrOPOSITIOIJ". 

What constitutes a Proposition. — All reasoning deals 



204 THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 

with propositions, wliich arc judgments expressed. Every 
proposition involves two distinct conceptions, and expresses 
the relation between them ; affirms the agreement or disa- 
greement of the one with the other. As when I say, Snow 
is white, the conception of snow is before my mind, and also 
of whiteness ; I perceive that the latter element enters into 
my notion of snow, and constitutes one of the qualities of 
the substance so called ; I affirm the relation of the two, 
accordingly, and this gives the proposition enunciated. 
Every proposition then consists of these several parts, a 
word or words expressing some conception, a word or 
Avords expressing some other conception, a word or Avords 
expressing the relation of the two. The words which 
designate these two conceptions are called the tenns of the 
proposition, and, according to the above analysis, there are, 
in every proposition, always two terms. That term or 
conception of w^hich something is affirmed, is called the 
subject, that which is affirmed of the same, the predicate, 
and the woixl which expresses the relation of the two, the 
copula. In the above proposition, snow is the subject, 
white, the predicate, and is, the copula. 

duality and Quantity.— Proi)ositions are distinguished as 
to quality and quantity. The former has reference to the 
affirmative or negative character of the proposition, the 
latter to its comprehensiveness. Every proposition is either 
affirmative or negative, which is called its quality. As to 
quantity, every proposition is either universal, affirming 
something of the whole of the subject — as, All men are 
mortal; or else particular, affirming something of only a 
l)art of the subject — as. Some tyrants are miserable. 

Four kinds of categorical Propositions. — We have, then, 
four kinds of categorical propositions, viz., universal affir- 
mative, universal negative, particular affirmative, i)articular 
negative. That is, with the same subject and predicate, it 
is always possible to state four distinct propositions; iis, 
every A is B, no A i? B, some A is B. i«omo A is not B. 



I 



THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 205 

For the sake of convenience, logicians designate these dif- 
ferent kinds of propositions severally by the letters A, E, 1, 0. 
Propositions that thus differ in quantity and quality are said 
to be opposed to each other. Of these, the two universals, 
A and E, are called contraries ; the two particulars, I and 
0, sub-contraries; the universal afi&rmative, and the par- 
ticular affirmative, A and I, also the universal negative and 
the particular negative, E and 0, are respectively subal- 
terns ; while the universal affirmative and the particular 
negative, A and 0, as also the universal negative and par- 
ticular affirmative, E and I, are contradictories. 

Eules of Opposition. — The following rules will be found 
universally applicable to propositions as opposed to each 
other. If the universal is true, so is the particular. If the 
particular is false, so is the universal. Contraries are never 
both true, but may be both false. Sub-contraries are never 
both false, but may be both true. Contradictories are never 
l^otli true, or both false, but always one is true, the other 
false. The truth of these maxims will be evident on ap- 
plying them to any proposition and its opposites, as for 
example, to the affirmation. Every man is mortal. 

Categorical and hypothetical Propositions. — Proposi- 
tions may be further distinguished as categorical or hypo- 
thetical; the one asserting or denying directl}^, as, e. g.^ 
The earth is round ; the other conditionally, — as, If the 
earth is round, it is not oblong. 

Pure, and Modal. — The proposition, moreover, may be 
either pure or modal, the former asserting or denying 
without qualification, — as, Man is liable to err; the latter 
qualifying the statement, — as, Man is extremely or un- 
questionably liable to err. 

II. Analysis of the Syllogism. 

Proposition the Link, Syllogism the Chain. — All reason- 
ing admits of being reduced to the form of a syllogism. 
Having discussed the proposition which forms the material or 



206 THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 

groundwork of every connected chain of argument, we are 
prepared now to examine the syllogism, or chain itself, into 
which the several i)ropositions, as so many links, are wrought. 

Syllogism defined. — A syllogism is an argument so ex- 
pressed that the conclusiveness of it is manifest from the 
mere form of expression. When, for example, I afiirm that 
all A is B, that all B is 0, and that, consequently, all A is 
C, it is impossible that any one who is able to reason at all, 
and who comprehends the force of these several propositions 
taken singly, should fail to perceive that the conclusion fol- 
lows inevitably from the premises. That which is affirmed, 
may or may not be true, but it is conclusive. If the prem- 
ises are true, so is the conclusion ; but whether they are 
true or not, the argument, as such, is conclusive ; nay, 
even if they are false, the conclusion may possibly be true. 
For example. Every tyrant is a good man ; Washington 
was a tyrant; therefore, Washington was a good man. 
Both the premises are false, but the argument, as regards 
the form, is valid, and the conclusion is not only correctly 
drawn, but is, moreover, a true proposition. In a word, 
the syllogism concerns itself not at all with the truth or 
falsity of the thing stated, but only with the form of stat- 
ing, and that form must be such, that the premises being 
conceded, the conclusion shall be obvious and inevitable. 
All valid reasoning admits of such statement. 

Composition of a Syllogism. — Every syllogism contains 
three propositions, of which two state the grounds or rea- 
sons, and are called the premises, the other states the in- 
ference from those positions, and is called the conclusion. 
These three propositions contain three, and only three, 
distinct terms, of which one is common to both premises, 
and is called the middle term ; the others are the extremes, 
one of which is the subject of the conclusion, and is called 
the minor term; the other the predicate of the conclusion, 
and is called the major term, from the fact that it denotes 
the clae? to which the subject or minor term belongs. In 



(I 



THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 207 

the syllogism, — Every man is mortal; Socrates is a man; 
therefore, Socrates is mortal, — the three terms are, man, 
mortal, and Socrates : of these, Socrates, or the subject of 
the conclusion, is the minor; mortal, or the predicate of 
thie conclusion, is the major; and man, with which both 
the others are compared, is the middle term. 

Major and minor ^Premiss. — The premiss which contains 
the majoi" term, and compares it with the middle, is called 
the major premiss ; that which, in like manner, compares the 
minor term with the middle, is called the minor premiss. 
In the syllogism already given, ^ Every man is mortal ' is the 
major premiss ; ^ Socrates is a man ' is the minor premiss. 

The Order variable. — The order of the terms in the re- 
spective propositions, and even the order of the propositions 
themselves, is not invariable, but depends on circumstances. 
In the above proposition, it is immaterial whether I say. 
Every man is mortal, or. Mortal is every man ; it is imma- 
terial whether I state first the major or the minor premiss ; 
nay, it is allowable even to state the conclusion first, and 
then the grounds and reasons for the same. 

III. Laws of Syllogism. 

The following rules or maxims will be found applicable 
to all cases, and may be regarded as laws of the syllogism. 

Middle Term unequivocal. — The middle term must not 
he equivocal. This rule is violated in the following syllo- 
gism. Nothing is heavier than lead ; feathers are heavier 
than nothing; therefore, feathers are heavier than lead. 
The middle term, nothing, is here used in different senses 
in the two premises. 

Middle Term to be distributed. — ^Essentially the same 
thing occurs when the middle term is not, at least once, in 
the premises, used in its most complete and comprehensive 
sense, or, as the logicians express it, distributed. As, for 
example, when I say, White is a color, the term color is not 
here distributed, for it properly includes many things be- 



208 THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 

sides white. If now I introduce into another proposition the 
Slime term in a similar manner, as Black is a color, I evi- 
dently include under the term, as now used, some ]iart of 
the class of things denoted by the general word color, which 
was not included under the same term as first used. The 
color which is alhrmed to agree with black, is not the same 
color which is affirmed to agree with white. The term, in 
fact, denotes one thing in the one proposition, and another 
in the other. A syllogism thus constructed, is invalid. 
Hence the rule, that the middle term mud be distributed, 
or taken in its completeness, to include the whole class 
which it properly denotes, at least once in the 2)remises. 
This is done either by making it the subject of an affirma- 
tive, or t\\G predicate of a negative proposifioji j as, All men 
are mortal, or. No vice is useful. Here the term man in 
the one case, and the term useful in the other, are each 
distributed or taken in their completeness. There is no 
individual to whom the term man can properly be applied, 
who is not included in the expression, all men, nor is there 
any useful thing which is not hero denied of vice. 

What distributed in the Conclusion. — On the same pi"in- 
ciple, no term must be distributed in the conclusion which 
was not distributed in 07ie of the pre7nises. This rule is 
violated in the following syllogism. All birds are bipeds; 
no man is a bird ; therefore, no man is a biped. Here the 
term biped, in the major premiss, is not taken in its com- 
pleteness, since many creatures besides birds are bipeds. 
Birds are only one sort of bipeds. In the conclusion, how- 
ever, the term biped, being the predicate of a negative 
proposition, is distributed, the whole class of bipeds is 
spoken of, and man is excluded from the whole ehiss. 
The syllogism is, of course, invalid. 

Law of negative Premiss. — It is further a law of the 
syllogism, that from ncfjative premises nothing can be in- 
ferred. Also, that if one premiss is negative^ the conclusion 
irUl be negative. 



THE ANALYTIC PKOCESS. 209 

Law of particular Premiss. — From tiuo imrticidar pre- 
mises notliing follows, hut if one premiss is particular, the 
conclusion luill he so. 

These rules are too obvious, and too easily verified, to re- 
quire illustration. 

IV. Different Kinds oe Syllogism. 

Syllogisms differ. — We have mentioned as yet only those 

properties of the syllogism which universally belong to it. 
There are differences, however, which require to be noticed, 
and which constitute a distinction of some importance, pre- 
senting, in fact, two distinct kinds of syllogism. 

Two Modes of procedure. — There are manifestly two 
entirely distinct modes of procedure in reasoning. We may 
infer from the whole to the parts, or from the parts to the 
whole. The former is called deductive, the latter inductive 
reasoning. The one is precisely the reverse of the other in 
method of procedure. Each is a perfectly valid method of 
reasoning, and each is, in itself, a distinct and valid kind of 
syllogism. Each requires the other. The deductive is 
wholly dependent on the inductive for its major premiss, 
which is only the conclusion of a previous induction, while, 
on the other hand, the induction is valuable chiefly as pre- 
paring the way for subsequent deduction. Each has equal 
claims with the other to be regarded as a distinct and inde- 
pendent form of syllogism. They have not, however, been 
so treated by logicians, but, on the contrar}^, the inductive 
method has been regarded, almost universally, as a mere 
appendage of the deductive, an imperfect form of one or 
another of the several figures of the syllogism deductive. 
Of this we shall have occasion to speak more fully in the 
historical sketch. 

The two Modes compared. — The precise relation of the 
two modes will best appear by the comparison of the follow- 
ing syllogisms. The inductive syllogism runs thus : x, y, z, 
are A ; x, y, z, constitute B ; therefore, B is A. 



210 T 11 K A N A L Y T 1 C PROCESS. 

The deductive runs thus : B is A; x, y, z, constitute B, 
therefore, x, y, z, are A. 

The hitter, it will be seen at a ghmce, is the precise coun- 
terpart of the other, beginning where the former ends, and 
exactly reversing the several steps in their order. 

The Law of each. — The general law or rule which 
governs the former, is. What belongs (or does not belong) 
to all the constituent parts, belongs (or does not belong) to 
the constituted whole. The law of the latter is, What be- 
longs (or not) to the containing whole, belongs (or not) to 
all the contained parts. 

Application of the inductive Method. — Applying the 
inductive method to a particular case, we reason thus : 
Magnets, x, ?/, z, etc., including so many as I have observed, 
attract iron. But it is fair to presume that what I have 
observed as true of .r, ?/, z, is equally true of €,f,g, and all 
other magnets; in other words x, y, z, do represent, and 
may fairly he taken as constituting the whole class of 
magnets : consequently, I conclude that all magnets attract 
iron. Thus stated, the truth which was at first observed 
and affirmed only of particular instances, becomes a gen- 
eral proposition, and may, in turn, become (he premiss of a 
process of deduction. Thus, from the general proposition, 
obtained as now explained by the inductive mode, that all 
horned animals ruminate, I may proceed, by the deductive 
mode, to infer that this is true of deer or goats, or any par- 
ticular species or individual whose habits I have not as yet 
observed. 

V. Different Forms of Syllogism. 

The Form of Statement not invariable. — As there ai'e 
different kinds of syllogism, so also there are different/orma 
in which any kind of syllogism may be stated. These forms 
are not essential, pertaining to the nature of the syllogism 
itself, but accidental, pertaining merely to the order of 
announcing the several propositions. It has already been 



THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 211 

remarked, in speaking of the general structure of the syllo- 
gism, that the order of propositions is not essential. Either 
premiss may precede, either follow. Nay, we may state first 
the conclusion, and then the reasons, or grounds. This latter 
method, as Hamilton has shown in his Neiv Analytic of Logi- 
cal forn^s, is perfectly valid, though usually neglected by writ- 
ers on logic. It is not pnly valid, but the more natural of the 
two methods. When asked if Socrates is mortal, it is more 
natural to say, He is mortal, for he is a man, and all men are 
mortal, than to say. All men are mortal, he is a man, and 
therefore, he is mortal. In fact, most of our reasoning takes 
the first of these forms. The two are designated by Hamil- 
ton, respectively, as the analytic and synthetic syllogism. 

Order of Premises may vary. — As to the order of the 
premises, which shall precede the other, this, too, is quite 
unessential and accidental. The earlier method, practised 
by Greek, Arabian, Jewish and Latin schools, was to state 
first the minor premiss, precisely the reverse of our modern 
custom. 

Order of Terms not essential. — The order of the terms, 
in the several propositions, is also accidental rather than 
essential. There are several possible and allowable arrange- 
ments of these terms with reference to the order of pre- 
cedence and succession, giving rise to what are called figures 
of the syllogism. These arrangements and figures have 
usually been reckoned as four ; three only are admitted by 
Hamilton, the fourth being abolished. The first figure 
occurs when the middle term is the subject of one premiss 
and the predicate of the other. The second figure gives 
the middle term the place of predicate in both premises. 
The third makes it the subject of both. 

A further Variation.— There is still another form of 
statement, in which the terms compared are not, as above, 
severally subject and predicate, but, in the same proposition, 
are both subject, or both predicate, as when we say, A and 
B are equal ; B and are equal ; therefore, A and C are 



2VZ THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 

cMiiuil. This is a valid synthetic syllogism, though not 
recognized by logicians previously to the JVetu Aiialylic of 
Hamilton. It is termed by him the nuligured syllogism. 

Hypothetical reasoning not syllogistic. — It has been cus- 
tomary to treat of hypothetical reasoning, in its two forms 
of conditional and disjunctive, as forms or kinds of syllogism. 
As when we say, if A is B, C is D ; but A is B, therefore C 
is D ; or, disjunctively, either A is B, or C is D ; but A 
is not B, therefore C is D. These, however, are not prop- 
erly syllogisms. The inference is not mediate, thi-ough 
comparison with a common or middle term, but imnieiliale, 
whereas the syllogism is, in all its forms, a process of mediate 
inference. 

Summary of Distinctions. — To sum up the distinctions 
now pointed out. All inference is either immediate, as in 
the case of hypothetical reasoning, Avhether conjunctive or 
disjunctive, or else mediate, as in the syllogism. The latter 
may be inductive or deductive ; and, as to form, analytic or 
synthetic, figured or un figured. 

VI. Laws of Thought on which the Syllogism 

DEPENDS. 

Statement. — There are certain universal laws of thought 
on which all reasoning, and, of course, all syllogisms, depend. 
These laws, according to Hamilton, are the principles of 
identity, of contradiction, and of excluded uiiddlc ; from 
v/hich primary laws results a fourth, that of reason and con- 
sequent. 

Law of Identity, what. — The principle of identity 
compels us to reriognize the equivalence of a whole and its 
several parts taken together, as applied to any conception 
and its distinctive characters. As, for example, the irame- 
ness or e(juivalence of the notion man with the aggregate 
of qualities or characters that constitute that notion. 

Law of Contradiction, what. — The law of contradiction 
is the principle that what is contradictory is unthinkable: 



(< 



THE Ai^ALYTIC PROCESS. 213 

as, for example, that A lias, aad yet has not, a given qual- 
ity, B. 

Law of excluded Middle. — The principle of excluded 
middle is this, that of two contradictory notions, we must 
think one or the other to be true ; as, that A either has or 
has not the quality B. 

Law of Reason and Consequent- — From these primary 
principles results the law of reason and consequent. All 
logical inference is based on that law of our nature, that 
one notion shall always depend on another. This inference 
is of two kinds, from the whole to the parts, or from the 
parts to the whole, respectively called deductive and induc- 
tive, as already explained. 

Certain Points not included in the preceding Synopsis. — 
I have presented, as was proposed, in brief outline, a 
synopsis of the forms of reasoning. For a full treatment 
of these forms, and the laws which govern them, the trea- 
tises on logic must be consulted. 

Some things usually considered essential to logical forms, 
as the modality of propositions and syllogisms, and the 
conversion of the other figures of the syllogism into the 
first, I have not included in the above outline, for the rea- 
son that the former does not properly fall within the 
province of logic, which has to do only with the fonn and 
not with the matter of a proposition or an argument, 
while, as to the latter, it is only an accidental, and not an 
essential circumstance, what may be the figure of a syllo- 
gism, and it is, therefore, of no importance to reduce the 
second and third figures to the first. 

VII. Use and Value oe the Syllogism. 

Having considered the various forms which the syllogism 
may assume, as also the laws or canons which govern it, 
we proceed to inquire, finally, as to its use and value in 
reasoning. 

All mediate reasoning syllogistic. — It must be con- 



214 THE ANALYTIC P R O (' E 8 S . 

ceded, I think, that all mediate reasoning, all inference, 
which is not immediute and direct, but which, in order to 
reach its conclusion, compares one thing with another, is 
essentially syllogistic. The greater part of our reasoning 
processes are of this sort. When fully and explicitly stated, 
such reasoning resolves itself into some form of syllogism. 
It is not, as sometimes stated, a mode of reasoning, but the 
mode which all reasoning, except such as is direct and im- 
mediate, tends to assume. Not always, indeed, is this 
reasoning fully drawn out and explicitly stated, but all 
valid reasoning admits of being thus stated ; nay, it is not, 
as to form at least, complete until it is so expressed. 

Not always syllogistically expressed. — In ordinary con- 
versation, and even in public address, we omit many inter- 
mediate steps in the trains and processes of our arguments, 
for the reason that their statement is not essential to our 
being understood, the hearer's mind supplying, for itself, the 
connecting links as Ave proceed ; just as in speaking or writ- 
ing, we make many abbreviations, drop out some letters and 
syllables here and there, in our hasty utterance, and yet all 
such short-hand processes imply and are based upon the full 
form ; and it would be as correct and as reasonable to say 
that the fully written or fully spoken word is merely a mode 
of speaking and writing, which, when the grammarian and 
rhetorician come into contact with common people, they lay 
aside for the ordinary forms of speech, as to say that syllo- 
gism is merely a mode of reasoning, which the logician lays 
aside when he comes out of his study, and reasons with 
other men. 

Chief value of the Syllogism. — The chief use of the 
syllogism, I a])prehcnd, however, to be, not in presenting a 
train of argument for the ])urpose of convincing and per- 
suading others ; for the laws of thought do not require us in 
such a ca<=!e to state every thing that i9 even essential to the 
argument, but only so much as shall clearly indicate our 
meaning, and enable the hearer or reader to follow us; but 



I 



THE AKALYTIC PROCESS. 215 

rather in testing tlie soundness or detecting the unsound- 
ness of an argument, whether our own, or that of an 
opponent. For this purpose, an acquaintance with the 
forms and laws of syllogism may be of great service to the 
writer and to the orator. 

Objection to the Syllogism. — But it is objected to the 
syllogism that it is of no value in the discovery and estab- 
lishment of truth, inasmuch as, by the very laws of the syllo- 
gism, there can be nothing more in the conclusion than was 
assumed in the premises. There is, and can be, in this wayj 
no progress from the known to the unknown. The very 
construction of the syllogism, it is said, involves a petitio 
pri7icipii. When I say, All men are mortal ; Socrates is a 
man ; therefore, Socrates is mortal ; the major premiss, it is 
said, affirms the very thing to be proved ; that Socrates is 
mortal is virtually affirmed in the proposition that all men 
are so. Either, then, the syllogism proves nothing which 
was not known before, or else the general proposition, with 
which it sets out, is unwaiTanted, as asserting more than 
we know to be true, and, in that case, the conclusion is 
equally unreliable ; in either case nothing is gained by the 
process ; the syllogism is worthless. 

Lies equally against all Reasoning. — This objection, if 
valid against the syllogism, is valid against and overthrows 
not the syllogism merely, but all reasoning of whatever 
kind, and in whatever form. It is an objection which really 
applies, not to the form which an argument may happen to 
assume, but to the essential nature of reasoning itself. As 
was shown in discussing the nature of the reasoning process, 
all reasoning is, in its nature, essentially analytic. It is the 
evolution of a truth that lies involved in some already 
admitted truth. It simply develops, draws out, what was 
therein contained. Its starting-point must always be some 
admitted position, its conclusions must always be some 
inevitable necessary consequence of that admission. The 
mortality of Socrates is, indeed, involved and contained in 



210 THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 

the general pro2)osition which afiiniis the mortality of all 
men, and so, also, is every inferred truth contained in that 
from which it is inferred. 

Conclusion not affirmed in the Premiss. — But wliile 
contained, it is not affirmed, in ihe premiss. To say that all 
men are mortal, is not to say that Socrates is so, but only 
to say what implies tiiat. The conclusion which draws out 
and affirms what was involved, but not afiirmed, in the 2)re- 
miss, is an advance in the order of thought, a step of 
progress, and not merely an idle rei3etition, and the syllo- 
gism, as a whole, moves the mind onward from the starting- 
point to a position not otherwise explicitly and positively 
reached. It is a movement onward, and not merely a 
rotation of the wheel about its own axis. 

The Form accidental. — In so far as the objection of 
petitio principii relates, not to the nature of reasoning, but 
only to its /or???, this is entirely a matter of accident, and 
does not pertain to the syllogism as such. As was shown in 
treating of the different forms of syllogism, the order of the 
propositions is not essential. We may, if we like, state the 
conclusion first, and then the reasons, as, All A is C, for all 
A is B, and all B is C ; or we may state the same thing in a 
different form, as, A and B are equal ; B and are equal ; 
therefore, A and C are equal. Both are syllogisms, the for- 
mer analytic, the latter nnjigured, but to neither does the 
objection of petitio ^^^'i^^cijui apply so far as regards the 
mere form of statement. Nor does it apply to that form of 
syllogism in which the major ])remiss is a singular propo- 
sition, as, e. (/., Caosar was fortunate; Caesar was a tyrant : 
therefore, a tyrant may be fortunate. Here the subject of 
the conclusion is not formally contained in that of the 
major premiss, as Socrates is contained in the expression, 
all men, a part of the whole. 

Objection inapplicable to the inductive Syllogism. — Nor 
does the objection apply again to the inductive syllogism, in 
which the conclusion is more comprehonsivc than the i)rH 



I 



I 



THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 217 

miss. The objection applies, in fact, only to the deductive 
syllogism, and to that only in its synthetic form, and to that 
only as figured, and as presenting in its major premiss, other 
than a siugular proposition. 

Major Premiss, whence derived. — But whence, it may 
still be asked, comes the general proposition which every 
deductive syllogism cgn tains, whether analytic or synthetic, 
the proposition e. g., that all men are mortal? AVhether 
this be stated before or after the conclusion is a mere mat- 
ter of form ; but what is our authority for stating such a 
proposition at all ? How do we know that which is here 
affirmed ? 

I reply, it is a truth reached by previous induction. 
Every deduction implies pre^dous induction. I observe the 
mortality of individuals, x, y, z. I find no exceptions. My 
observation extends to a great number of cases, insomuch 
that I am authorized to take those cases as fairly represent- 
ing the whole class to which they belong. I conclude, 
therefore, that what I have observed of the many is true of 
the whole. So comes the general proposition, All men are 
mortal. 

Authority for this Belief. — But what reason have I to 
believe that what is true of the many is true of the whole ; 
and how do I know this ? I reply, I do not know it by ob- 
servation, nor by demonstration ; my belief of it rests upon, 
and resolves itself into, that general law or constitution of 
the mind according to which I am led to expect, under like 
circumstances, like results, in other words, that nature acts 
uniformly. This is my warrant, and my only warrant, for 
the inference, that what I have observed in many cases is 
true in others that I have not observed. 

A Difficulty suggested.— But in what manner, now, shall 
this mere belief of mine, for it is nothing more, come to 
take its place as a general proposition, as positive categorical 
affirmation in the syllogism Avhose major premiss reads, All 
men are mortal ? 
10 



218 THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 

A law of the mind may bo a sufficient explanation of my 
belief; but the science of syllogisms cannot take cognizance 
of laws of the mind, as such, and has nothing to do with 
beliefs, but is concerned only with the forms in which an 
argument shall be presented. Those forms must be conclu- 
sive. How shall I convert, then, my conjecture, my plausible 
belief, in the present case, into that general positive affirma- 
tion which alone will answer the demands of the syllogism ? 

The Process explained. — The process is this : The precise 
result of my observation stands thus — x, y, z, are mortal. 
But I know that x, %j, z, are so numerous as fairly to repre- 
sent the class to which they belong. On the strength of 
this position, the inductive syllogism takes its stand, and 
overlooking the fact that there are some cases which have 
not fallen under my observation, positively affirms what I 
only believe and presume to be true, and the argument then 
reads, x, y, z, are mortal. But x, y, z, are all men ; there- 
fore, all men are mortal. 

The general proposition thus reached by induction be- 
comes, in turn, the major premiss of the deductive syllogism, 
which concludes, from the mortality of all men, that of 
Socrates in particular. 

Position of Mill. — An able and ingenious writer, Mr. 
Mill, in his treatise on logic, takes the ground that we have 
no need to embody the result of our observations in the 
form of a general proposition, from which again to descend 
to the particular conclusion, but that, dispensing with the 
general proposition altogether, and with the syllogism of _ 
every kind and form, we may, and virtually do, reason | 
directly from one particular instance to another, as, e. y., 
x, y, z, are mortal ; therefore, /, g, h, are so. " If from our 
experience of John, Thomas, etc., who were once living, but 
are now dead, we are entitled to conclude that all human 
beings are mortal, we might surely, without any logical in- 
consequence, have concluded at once, from those instances, 
that the Duke of Wellington is mortal. The mortality of 



4 



THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 219 

John, Thomas, and company, is, after all, the whole evidence 
we have of the mortality of the Duke of Wellington. Not 
one iota is added to the proof by interpolating a general 
proposition." Our earliest inferences, he contends, are pre- 
cisely of this sort. The child burning his fingers, reasons 
thus : " That fire burnt me, therefore this will.'' He does 
not generalize, " All fire burns ; this is fire ; therefore, this 
will burn." The only use of a general proposition, Mill 
contends, is simply to furnish collateral security for the 
correctness of our inference. 

Remarks upon this View. — This view sweeps away at 
once, and forever, all mediate reasoning, and shuts us up to 
the narrow limits of such inference alone as proceeds from 
a given instance directly to a conclusion therefrom. No 
doubt we do sometimes reason thus. But it is a reasoning, 
the conclusiveness of which is not, and cannot be made, 
apparent by any form of statement. If called in question, we 
can only say, I think so, or, I believe so. The mortality of 
John does not prove the mortality of Thomas. It may not 
even render it probable ; it is only when I have observed 
such and so many cases as to leave no reasonable doubt that 
the property in question is a law of the class as such, and 
7iot a mere accident of the individual, that I am really war- 
ranted in the belief that any individual, not as yet observed, 
will come under the same law, because belonging to the 
same class. To reason in this way is to generalize ; what- 
ever process stops short of this, stops so far short of any 
and all conclusive evidence of the truth of what it affirms. 

VIII. Historical Sketch of the Science of Logic. 

Indian Logic earlier than that of Aristotle. — It is of 

the Greek logic, that of Aristotle, that we usually speak 
when we have occasion to refer to this science. It is usually 
attributed to Aristotle, indeed, as his peculiar glory, that 
he should at once have originated, and brought to perfec- 



220 THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 

tion, a science which, for more than two thousand years, 
has received few alterations, found few minds capable of 
suggesting improvements. Recent labors of Orientalists 
have, however, brought to light the fact that in India, long 
before the palmy days of Grecian philosophy, logic was 
pursued with vigor as a study and science. The Nydya of 
Gotama holds, in the Indian .systems of philosophy, nmch 
the same place that the Organon of Aristotle holds with us. 
The tw^o, however, are quite independent of each other. 
Aristotle was no disciple of Gotama. 

Aristotle's Logic not perfect. — Xor, on the other hand, 
was the logic of Aristotle by any means perfect, as it is often 
represented. Its imperfections are many, and have been, 
for the most part, faithfully copied by his disciples. 

Aristotle the first Greek Logician. — Previous to Aristotle 
there had been nothing worthy the name of science in this 
department of philosoph3\ The Sophists had made some 
attempts at logic, but of no great value. Plato had not 
devoted much attention to it. Aristotle himself says, in 
the close of his Organon, that he had worked without 
models or predecessors to guide him. 

Subsequent "Writers. — The work of Aristotle is in six 
parts, the first four treating of logic pure, the remaining 
two of its application. The school of Aristotle carried the 
cultivation and study of logic to a high degree. Theophras- 
tus and Eudemus labored assiduously as commentators on 
their master, but made no change in the essential principles 
of the system. The Stoics, however, gave logic more atten- 
tion and honor, more time and care, than did any other of 
the rival schools of philosophy. They sought to enlarge its 
boundaries and make it an instrument for the discovery of 
truth. It held the first place in their system, ethics and 
physics ranking after it. 

St. Hilaire is wrong in saying tliat with Epicurus logic 
was of little consideration, that sensation was the source 
and criterion of thought with that school. The Epicurean 



4 



THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 221 

logic was a peculiar system, differing from the Aristotelian, 
and very little known in the subsequent centuries. 

In Alexandria the logic of Aristotle was in great honor, 
and had numerous commentators in the first centuries of 
the Christian era. 

Introduced into Rome. — For a time the original works of 
Aristotle were lost. ^They lay buried in an obscure retreat 
whither they had been carried for safe preservation, and no 
one knew what they were. Sylla, capturing the city, brought 
them to Eome, where they were discovered to be the works of 
the great master, and Cicero gives them, with some labor and 
learning, to the public. But the Koman mind never mas- 
tered the logic of Aristotle. In all Roman philosophy, says 
St. Hilaire, there is scarcely a logician worthy of the name. 

For several centuries, if not in Rome, yet in Alexandria 
and Athens, in Greece and in Egypt, the logic of Aristotle 
continued to be assiduously cultivated. 

Logic in the Middle Ages. — It was in the middle ages, 
however, that logic received its chief cultivation and its 
highest honors. Aristotle was for some six centuries al- 
most the only teacher of the human mind, and the Organon 
was the foundation of his knowledge. Nor during the 
irruption of the northern hordes, and the revolutions of 
society, and empire, and human manners, which followed, 
did the philosophy and logic of Aristotle pass out of sight 
or out of mind. It seemed impossible for any revolution 
of empire or of time to shake its foundations or break its 
sceptre over the human mind. In the seventh century, 
Isidore of Seville, and Bede the Venerable, gave it their 
labors and renown. In the eighth, Alcuin introduced it 
into the court of Charlemagne. In the twelfth, Abelard, 
and the controversy between the Realists and Nominalists, 
gave this science still more importance. 

Logic in the Arabian Schools. — Meanwhile, the Mo- 
hammedans had been in advance of the Christians in the 
study of this science. The Arabs had inherited the 



223 THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 

learning of antiquity, and had carried the cultivation of 
the peripatetic philosophy to a high degi'ee of perfection 
more than a century before it liad received the homage of 
the West. From Arabia it passed, with the march of con- 
quest, into Spain, and some of tlie ablest commentators 
Europe has produced, on tlie works of Aristotle, have been 
the Moors of Spain. 

Continuance of Aristotle's Dominion. — The Crusades 
tended only to enlarge the spliere of this influence. Such 
men as Albert the Great, and Thomas Aquinas, became, 
in the thirteenth century, expounders of Aristotle. Not 
till the sixteenth century did this long dominion over the 
human mind show symptoms of decadence. 

The Reformers. — Luther, among the Protestant reform- 
ers, sought to banish logic from the schools ; but it was re- 
tained, and in the Protestant universities was still professed. 

Attacks upon Aristotle. — It now became the fashion, 
however, in certain quarters, especially among the mystics 
in the Catholic communion, to decry Aristotle, and each 
original genius took this way to show his independence. 
Kamus is noted among these. Bacon followed in this 
track, and did little more than repeat the invectives of his 
predecessors. He attempted to set aside the syllogism, and 
put in its place induction. 

Induction, however, in some form, is as old as the syllo- 
gism. From Plato and Aristotle downward, a thousand 
philosophers had availed themselves of this method of 
reasoning, and had also stated and defended it. 

The Moderns. — From Bacon and Descartes till our day 
logic has been in process of decadence. Locke condemns 
it. Hcid and the Scotch school ridicule its pretensions. 
Kant and Hegel, on the other liand, give it a due place in 
their systems — the latter especially; while in France, it has 
admirers in St. Hilaire, Cousin, and others of like genius ; 
and in Edinburgh, the great Hamilton devoted to it the 
powers of his unrivalled intellect. 



THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 223 

Logic of Hamilton. — As no writer, since the days of 
Aristotle, has done more to complete and perfect the science 
of reasoning, than Sir William Hamilton, it seems due that 
even so brief a sketch of the history of logic as the present, 
should indicate, at least, the more important changes which 
his system introduces. Whatever may be thought of some 
of his views and proposed reforms in this ancient science 
and sanctuary of past learning, it is not too much to say, that 
no writer on logic can henceforth present a claim to be con- 
sidered, who has not, at least, thoroughly mastered and 
carefully weighed these views and proposed changes, even 
if he do not adopt them. They are, moreover, for the most 
part, changes so obviously demanded in order to the com- 
pleteness of the science, and so thorough-going withal, that 
they are destined, it would seem, to be sooner or later 
adopted, and if adopted, to work a radical change in the 
whole structure of this ancient and time-honored science. 

I shall attempt nothing more, in this connection, than, 
in the briefest manner, to enumerate some of the more im- 
portant of these improvements. 

Assigns Induction its true Place. — Hamilton is the first, 
so far as I know, to elevate to its true place the inductive 
method of reasoning, making it coordinate with the de- 
ductive, and assigning its true character and value as a 
form of syllogism. 

Recognizes the analytic Syllogism. — He is the first to 
bring to notice the claims of the analytic syllogism to a 
distinctive place and recognition in logic ; a form of 
reasoning, which, however natural and necessary, and in 
use almost universal, had been strangely overlooked by 
logicians from Aristotle down. 

Rejects Modality. — He strenuously and consistently re- 
jects the modality of the proposition and the syllogism, on 
the ground that logic is not concerned with the character of 
the matter, whether it be true or false, necessary or contin- 
gent, but only with the form of statement, and consequently, 



224 THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 

all distinctions founded on the truth or falsity, the neces- 
sity or contingence of the matter, are utterly irrelevant to 
the science— a principle admitted by others, but not pre- 
viously carried out to its true results. 

Doctrine of Figure.— He shows that the figure of the 
syllogism is a matter accidental, rather than essential, that 
it may be even entirely iinfigured ; abolishes the fourth 
iigure as superfluous ; and sets aside, as quite useless and 
unnecessary, the old laborious processes of reducing and 
connecting the several figures to the first. 

Rejects hypothetical Syllogism. — He throws out of the 
syllogism entirely, the so-called hypothetical forms, both 
conjunctive and disjunctive, as reducible to immediate in- 
ference, and not, therefore, to be included under syllogistic 
reasoning, which is always mediate. 

The single Canon. — He reduces the several laws and 
canons of the figured syllogism to a single comprehensive 
canon. 

Quantification of the Predicate.— But the most important 
discovery made by Hamilton in this science, is the quantifi- 
cation of the predicate. The predicate is always a given 
quantity in relation to the subject, and that quantity should 
be stated. This, logicians have always overlooked, quanti- 
fying only the subject, as. All men. Some men, etc., but 
never the predicate. Fully quantified, the proposition reads, 
All man is some animal, no animal, etc., i. c, some sort or 
species of animal. This doubles the number of possible 
propositions, giving eight in place of four, and gives a cor- 
responding increase in the number of words. These eight 
propositions are shown to be, not only possible, but ad- 
missible and valid. They are thus enumerated and named: 

AFFIllMATn-E. NEGATIVE. 

I. Toto total : All A is all B. Any A is not any B. 

ir. Toto-imrtial : All A is some B. Any A is not some B. 

III. Parti-total: Some A is all B. Somo A is not any B. 

IV. Parti-partial : Some A is some B. iSomo A is not some B. 



THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 225 

Reference. — For a more full and exact account of Hamil- 
ton's system, the reader is referred to the article on logic in 
the volume of Discussions on Philosophy and Literature , 
by Sir W. Hamilton; also, to ^' An Essay on the New 
Analytic of Logical Forms " by Thomas Spencer Baynes, 
L. L. B. On the history of logic in general, see Dictio7inaire 
des Sciences Philosophiques — Article Logique, by Barthe- 
leme St. Hilaire, Professor of Philosophy to the College of 
France, member of the Institute, etc., etc.; also Blakey's 
History of Logic. The Memoir of St. Hilaire, on the logic 
of Aristotle, is one of the best works of modern times on 
the subject of which it treats. 



INTELLECTUAL FACULTIES, 



<^>- 



PART FOURTH. 
THE INTUITIVE POWER 



NTUITIVE POWER 



CHAPTHB L 

EXISTENCE AND NATURE OF THE INTUITIVE FACULTY. 

Office of this Power. — In our analysis of the powers of 
the mind, one was described as having for its office the con- 
ception of truths that lie apart from the region and domain 
of sense — first principles and primary ideas, fundamental to, 
and presupposed in, the operations of the understanding, 
yet not directly furnished by sense. They are awakened in 
the mind on occasion of sensible experience, but it is not 
sensible experience which produces them. On the contrary, 
they spring up in the mind as by intuition, whenever the 
fitting occasion is presented. We must attribute their 
origin to a special power of the mind by virtue of which, 
under appropriate circumstances, it conceives the truths and 
ideas to which we refer. This power we have termed the 
originatice or inhiitive faculty. 

Specific Character. — In its specific character and function 
it is quite distinct from any of the faculties as yet considered. 
It does not, like the presentative power, bring before us, in 
direct cognizance, sensible objects ; nor does it, like the rep- 
resentative faculty, replace those objects to thought, in their 
absence. It neither presents, nor represents, any object 
whatever. It forms no picture of any thing to the mind's 
eye. Itjs.a power of simple conception; and yet it differs 
in an important sense from the other conceptive powers. 



230 EXISTENCE AND NATURE 

and that is, that it is not reflectivehwt intuitive in its action. 
Its data are conceptions, but conceptions necessary and in- 
tuitive, seen at a glance, not the results of the reflective and 
discursive process. These data are ideas of reason, rather 
than notions of the understanding, or processes of reflection. 
There is no sensible object corresponding to these ideas. 
We do not see, or hear, or feel, or by any means cognize, 
any thing of the sort ; nor can we form a picture, or rep- 
resent to ourselves any such thing as, e. g., time, or space, 
or substance, or cause, and the like. They are conceptions 
of the mind, and yet we conceive of them as realities. We 
cannot think them the mere creations and figments of the 
brain. And in this respect, again, they differ from the 
notions of the understanding — those classes and genera 
which we know to be the mere creations of the mind. 

Existence of such a Faculty. — If any are disposed to 
doubt the existence of the faculty under consideration, as a 
distinct power of the mind, we have only to ask, whence 
come these ideas ? They are given, not by perception, 
evidently, nor by memory, nor by imagination, for they fall 
not within the sphere of any of these faculties, that is the 
sphere of sense. They relate not to the sensible, but to the 
super-sensible. 

Nor are they the result of abstraction, as might at first 
appear. Particular instances being given, certain times, 
certain spaces, certain substances, certain instances of right 
and wrong conduct — it is the province of the faculty now 
named, to form, from these concrete ideas, the abstract no- 
tions of time, space, etc. But whence comes, in the first in- 
stance, the concrete idea ? Whence comes the notion of a 
time, a space, a substance, a cause, a right or wrong act ? 
Abstraction cannot give these. Manifestly, however, we 
have a faculty of forming such conceptions, of perceiving 
such truths and realities; and as manifestly, it is a faculty, 
distinct from any hitherto considered. There are such reali- 
ties as time, space, substance, cause, right and wrong, etc., 



I 



OF THE IKTUITIVE FACULTY. 231 

The mind takes cognizance of them as such, knows them, 
and knows them to be realities ; has, therefore, the faculty 
of knowing such truths. We may call it, if we please, the 
faculty of original and intuitive conception. 

Generally admitted. — The existence of ideas not directly 
furnished by sense or experience, and not given by the 
faculties whose office it is to deal with objects of sense, is 
a doctrine now generally admitted by tlie most eminent 
philosophers. Nor is it a doctrine peculiar to any one school. 
Under different names it is the doctrine substantially of 
Reid, Stewart, Brown, Price, among English metaphysi- 
cians; Kant and his disciples in Germany; Cousin, Jouffroy 
and others in France. It is denied by Hobbes, Condillac, 
Gassendi, and others of that class wlio trace all our ideas to 
sense as their ultimate source and parentage. 

Opinion of Locke. — The position of Locke respecting 
this matter, has been the subject of much controversy. By 
a certain class of writers he has been regarded as denying 
the existence of any and all ideas not derived from sense, and 
has been classed with the school of Hobbes, Condillac, etc. 
His philosophy has been regarded by many as of doubtful 
and dangerous tendency, as leading to the denial of all truth 
and knowledge not within the narrow domain of sense, and 
so conducting to materialism and skepticism. This can 
by no means be fairly charged upon him, nor upon his 
philosophy. He held no such views, nor are they implied 
or contained in his doctrine. Locke, indeed, takes the 
gi^ound that all our ideas may be traced ultimately to one 
of two sources, sensation or reflection; the one taking cog- 
nizance of external objects, the other of our own mental 
operations: and that, whatever other knowledge we have 
not given directly by these faculties, is produced by adding, 
repeating, and variously combining, in our own minds, the 
simple ideas derived from these sources. In this process, 
however, of adding, combining, etc., he really includes what 
we prefer to designate as a separate faculty of the mind. 



23*2 EXISTENCE AND NATURE 

and by another name. He distinctly recognizes the existence 
of the ideas whicli we attribute to this faculty — ideas of 
space, power, etc. — and gives a clear, and for the most part 
correct account of their origin. The mind, he says, observes 
v.hat passes without — the changes there occurring; it reflects 
also on what passes within — the changes of its own ideas and 
purposes; it concludes that like changes will be produced in 
the same things, under the same circumstances, in future; 
it considers the possibility of effecting such changes, and 
so comes by the idea of power. In this Locke I'eally in- 
cludes essentially what we mean by suggestion or original 
conception. Experience, it is universally admitted, fur- 
nishes the occasion, suggests the idea, must precede as the 
indispensable condition of the mind's having the idea, and 
is, at least in this sense, the source of it, that it suggests 
the idea to the mind. All this, Locke fully admits, while, 
at the same time, he fails to dra^v the dividing line clearly 
between the ideas of sense and those in question. 

Objections to the term Suggestion. — The name original 
suggestion has been commonly applied, of late, especially in 
this country, to designate the faculty now under considera- 
tion. It is so used by Professor Upham, and by Dr. Way- 
land. It is liable, however, to serious objections. The term 
suggestion does not seem to me to express the peculiar 
characteristic, the distinctive element and office of this fac- 
ulty. It is not peculiar to the ideas now in question, that 
they are suggested to the mind; many other ideas, all ideas, in 
fact, are suggested by something. This class of our thought*;, 
therefore, is no more entitled to that name than any other 
class. Nor is it peculiar to this class that they are original 
suggestions. The mind has many other equally original 
ideas that are likewise suggestions from things without, 
or from its own operations— mere fancies many of them, 
imiginations. We need to distinguish, in this case, the 
merely fanciful, the ideal, from the real. The terms in- 
tuitive and intuition, while they imply the renlity of the 



OF THE INTUITIVE FACULTY. 233 

thing perceived, indicate, also, the immediateness of the 
process. 

More serious Objection. — But there is a still further and 
more serious objection to the term suggestion as thus em- 
ployed. The word does not, and cannot, with propriety, be 
made to denote what is now intended. It has a transitive 
significance, and cannot be made to denote a purely subjec- 
tive process. Objects external suggest certain ideas to my 
mind. I suggest ideas to other minds. The faculty of sug- 
gestion lies, properly, not with the mind that receives the 
suggestion, but with the mind or object that gives it. But 
v/'hen we say the mind has the faculty of original suggestion, 
we do not mean that it has the power of suggesting original 
ideas to other minds ; we refer to that power of the mind 
by which, in virtue of its constitution, certain ideas, not 
strictly derived from sense, are awakened in it when the occa- 
sion presents itself. We intend not a power of suggesting, 
but rather of receiving suggestions, a power of conceiving 
ideas, a power of original and intuitive conceptions. To say 
that the mind suggests to itself ideas of space, time, etc., is 
a singular use of terms. I understand what is meant by 
suggesting ideas to others, and what it is to receive sugges- 
tions from others, and to have ideas suggested by events, 
occurrences and objects without, and how one thought may, 
by some law of association, suggest another. But how the 
mind suggests ideas to itself, is not so clear. A man, in a 
fit of abstraction, talks to himself, but whether he suggests 
ideas to himself in that way, so that he finds his owm conver- 
sation instructive and profitable, may admit of question. 
The truth is, the idea is suggested, not ty the mind, but to 
the mind — suggested from without. The mind has the power 
of conceiving certain ideas, which are awakened or excited 
in it by the occasion which presents itself. To call this 
faculty a faculty of suggestion, is simply a misnomer. 

The true Doctrine. — All we can truly say, is, that the 
idea is awakened or called up in the mind when the occasion 



234 EXISTENCE AND NATURE 

presents, is suggested to it, not by it, suggested by tbe occa- 
sion, and not by the mind itself. The mind has the idea 
within, has, moreover, the faculty of conceiving the idea, is 
so constituted, that, under certain circumstances, in view of 
what it observes without, or is conscious of within, the 
given idea is naturally and universally awakened in it; but 
the source of the suggestion lies not within the mind itself, 
and is not to be confounded with the mind's faculty of con- 
ception. 

Use of the term by Reid and others. — Dr. Reid has 
been referred to as authority for the use of the word sug- 
gestion to denote the fiiculty in question. Dr. Reid makes 
use of the word, but not in the sense now intended, not to 
denote a specific faculty of the mind, coordinate with per- 
ception, memory, imagination, etc. , not, in fact, as a faculty 
at all. He refers to the well known fact, that ideas are sug- 
gested to the mind by objects and events without, and by 
the sensations thus awakened; as, e.g., a certain sound sug- 
gests the passing of a coach in the street. So, also, one 
idea or sensation will suggest another. He uses the term 
to denote the suggestion of one thing to the mind hy 
another thing, and not to denote a power in the mind 
of suggesting things to itself. This is the correct use, and 
was not original with Reid. Berkley had used the term in 
the same way before him. Locke had used the word ex- 
cited, in the same sense. The idea expressed by these 
terms, and the use of the same or similar terms by which 
to express it, may be traced back as far, at least, as to the 
Christian Fathers. St. Augustine so uses it. Reid ex- 
pressly applies the term to the perception of external 
objects, as, e. g., certain sensations suggest the notion of 
extension and space. This is correct use. 

The Facts in the Case. — The truth is, things exist thus 
and thus, and we are constituted with reference to them as } ] 
tlius existing. Sense and experience inform us of these ex- 
istences and realities. Some of them are objects of direct 



I 



OF THE n^TUETlV^E FACULTY. 235 

perception by the senses, as matter and its qualities. Some 
of them are not directly objects of perception, but are sug- 
gested to 'the mind by the operations of sense, and are 
intuitively perceived by fche mind, and reco^s^nized as truths 
and realities when thus suggested, as time, space, substance, 
cause, the right, the wrong, the beautiful, etc. 

The mind has the ^faculty of receiving and recognizing 
such trutlis and realities as thus suggested ; and this faculty 
we call the power of oric/inal ana intuitive conception. 

These Ideas of internal Origin, in what Sense. — It has 
been customary of late, especially in our country, to speak 
of the class of ideas now referred to as of i?iternal origin^ 
in distinction from other ideas, derived more directly from 
sense, and which are consequently designated as of external 
origin. As it is desirable to be exact in our use of terms, 
it may be well to inquire in what sense any of our ideas 
are of external, and in what sense of internal origin, and 
wherein the ideas, now under consideration, differ from any 
others in respect to their source. 

Ideas of external Origin. — A large class of our ideas 
evidently relate to objects of sense, objects external and 
material, of which we take cognizance through the senses. 
Such ideas may be said to be of external origin, inasmuch 
as they relate to things without, and are dependent on 
the external object as the indispensable condition of their 
development. Were it not for the external object produ- 
cing the sensation of color or of hardness. I should not have 
the idea of redness or of hardness ; were it not for the 
external object resisting my movements, I should not get 
the idea of externality. The idea is, in these cases, depend- 
ent on, and limited by, the sensation or the perception. 
They correspond as shadow and substance. The idea of 
resistance, and the perception of it, the idea of sound or 
color, and the sensation of it, are coextensive, synchronous, 
and, as to contents, identical. 

These, in a Sense, internal.— In another sense, however, 



236 EXISTENCE AND NATUUE 

even these ideas are of internal orio^in, that is, they are the 
mind's own ideas ; they spring up in the mind, and not out 
of it ; they are, as ideas, strictly internal states, affections, 
acts of the mind itself. Take away intelligence, reason, 
the light divine, from the soul of man, and the external 
objects may exist as before, and produce the same effect 
on the organs of sense, but the ideas no longer follow. The 
physical organs of the idiot are aflfected in the same way by 
external objects as those of any other person, but he gets 
hot the same ideas. These, it is the office of the mind to 
produce and fasliion for itself out of tlie occasion and 
material furnished by sense. And this is as true of ideas 
relating to external objects as to any other. 

Sensation an internal Affection. — It may even be said of 
this class of ideas, that their suggestion is of internal origin. 
The immediate occasion of the mind's having the idea of 
extension, weight, hardness, color, etc., is not the existence 
of the object itself, possessing such and such qualities, but 
the impression produced by the object and its qualities on 
the sense; in other words, the sensation awakened in us. 
This it is which awakens and calls forth in the mind the 
idea of the external object. Were there, for any reason, no 
sensation, then the objects might exist as now, but we 
should have no idea of them. But sensation is an inter- 
nal affection, revealed by consciousness, and the ideas 
awakened by it and dependent on it, are immediately of 
internal origin, though mediately dependent on some i)re- 
ceding external condition and occasion. 

Ideas of internal Origin. — If we examine, now, the ideas 
of internal origin, so called, furnished by the faculty of 
orig'inal and intuitive conception, we find that, while they 
do not directly relate to objects of sense external and 
material, they nevertheless depend, in like manner, on 
some preceding operation of sense as the occasion of their 
development. Observation of what goes on without, or 
consciousness of what goes on within furnishes the occa- 



I 



OF THIS FACULTY. 237 

sion, as all admit, on which these ideas are awakened in the 
mind. The idea of time, e.g., is connected with the suc- 
cession of events, external or internal — things without and 
thought and feeling within following each other — which 
succession is matter of observation or of consciousness. 
The idea of space is connected with the observation or sen- 
sation of body as extended. The idea of beauty and 
deformity is awakened by the perception of external objects 
as possessing certain qualities which we thus designate. 
The idea of right and wrong in like manner connects with 
something observed in human conduct. So of all ideas of 
this class. They are not disconnected with, nor independ- 
ent of, the appropriate objects of observation and conscious- 
ness. These objects must exist, these occasions must be 
furnished, as the indispensable condition of the existence 
of the idea in the mind. Dispense with the succession of 
events or the observation of it, and you dispense with the 
idea of time in the human mind. 

Conclusion. — So far as regards the origin of the ideas in 
question, it is not easy to draw a dividing line, then, be- 
tween the two classes, marking the one as external, tlie 
other as internal. Both are of external origin, and equally 
so, in this sense — that they both depend, and equally de- 
pend, on some previous exercise of sense as the occasion 
and condition of their development. Both are of internal 
origin, in another sense — that they are both awakened in 
the mind — are both the product of its own activity. 

Difference lies in what. — The difference is not so much 
that of externality or internality of origin, as it is a differ- 
ence of character. The one relates to objects of sense, 
which can be seen, heard, felt; the other to matters not 
less real, not less obvious, but of which sense does not take 
direct cognizance. In either case they spring from the 
constitution and laws of the mind. Such is my constitu- 
tion that external and material objects, affecting my senses, 
furnish me ideas relating to such objects. And such is my 



238 TRUTHS AND CONCEPTIONS 

constitution that certain relations and qualities of things 
not directly cognizable by sense, and certain realities and 
facts of an aesthetic and moral nature, likewise impress my 
mind, and thus awaken in me the idea of such relations 
and realities. The objects, the relations, the realities, 
exist, they are perceived by the mind, and thus the first 
idea of them is obtained. Color exists, and the eye is so 
constituted as to be able to perceive it, and thus the idea 
of color is awakened in the mind. So right and wrong 
exist, and the mind is so constituted as to be able to per- 
ceive and recognize their existence, and thus the idea of 
right is awakened in the mind. The faculty we call per- 
ception in the one case, original conception in the other. 



CHAPTER Ih 

TRUTHS AND CONCEPTIONS FURNISHED BY THIS 
FACULTY. 

§ I -PRIMARY TRUTHS. 

Primary Truths and Primary Ideas as distinguished. — 
The faculty in question may be regarded as the source of 
primary beliefs, truths, cognitions, intuitively perceived, 
and also of primary and original conceptions, notions, 
ideas, also intuitively concewed. m 

The difference between a conception or idea, and a f 
belief or truth, is obvious. The notion of existence, and 
the knowledge or belief that I, myself, exist, are clearly 
distinguishable. The idea of cause, and the conviction 
that every event has a cause, are distinct mental states. 
The one is a primitive and intuitive conception, the other 
a primitive and intuitive truth. Every primary trutli 
involves a primitive and original conception. 

Existence of first Truths.— All science and all reasoning 



FURNISHED BY THIS FACULTY. 239 

depend ultimately on certain first truths or principles, not 
learned by experience, but prior to it, the evidence and cer- 
tainty of which lie back of all reasoning and all experience. 
Take away these elementary truths, and neither science nor 
reasoning are longer possible, for want of a beginning and 
foundation. Every proposition which carries evidence with 
it, either contains that evidence in itself, or derives it from 
some other proposition on which it depends. And the same 
is true of this other proposition, and so on forever, until 
we come, at last, to some proposition which depends on no 
other, but is self-evident, a first truth or principle. Whence 
come these first principles ? Not of course from experi- 
ence, for they are involved in and essential to all experience. 
They are native or d priori convictions of the mind, instinc- 
tive and intuitive judgments. 

Existence of first Truths admitted. — The existence of 
first truths or principles, as the basis of all acquired knowl- 
edge, has been very generally admitted by philosophers. 
They have designated these elementary principles, however, 
by widely different appellations. By some, they have been 
termed instinctive beliefs, cognitions, judgments, etc., an 
appellation mentioned by Hamilton as employed by a very 
great number of writers from Cicero downward, including, 
among the rest, Scaliger, Bacon, Descartes, Pascal, Leibnitz, 
Hume, Reid, Stewart, Jacobi. Others, again, have termed 
them a priori or transcendental principles, cognitions, judg- 
ments, etc., as being prior to experience, and transcending 
the knowledge derived from sense. So Kant and his school 
termed them. By the Scotch writers they have been termed, 
also, principles of common sense, in place of which expression 
Stewart prefers the title, fundamental laics of human lelief. 

Criteria of primary Truths. — It becomes an important 
inquiry, in what manner we may recognize and distinguish 
first truths from all others. Besides common consent, or 
universality of belief on the part of those who have arrived 
at years of discretion, Bnffier relies, also, upon the following. 



240 TRUTHS AND CONCEPTIONS. 

as criteria of first principles; that they are such truths as 
can neither be defended nor attacked by any propositions, 
either more manifest or more certain than themselves ; and 
that their practical influence extends even to those who 
would deny them. Reid gives, among other criteria, the 
following : consent of ages and nations ; the absurdity of 
the opposite ; early appearance in the mind, prior to edu- 
cation and reasoning; practical necessity to the conduct 
and concerns of life. HamiUon gives the following as tests 
or criteria of first truths : 1. Incomprehensibility. — We 
comprehend that the thing is, but not hoiv or icliy it is. 
2. Simplicity. — If the cognition or belief can be resolved 
into several cognitions or beliefs, it is complex, and so, no 
longer original. 3. Neces-^ity, and consequent universality. — 
If necessary, it is universal, and if absolutely universal, 
then it must be necessar3\ 4. Comparative evidence and 
certainty. 

Summary of Criteria. — The following may be regarded 
as a summary of the more important criteria by which to 
distinguish primary truths from all others. 

a. As first truths, or primary data of intelligence, the}' 
are, of course, not derived from observation or experience, 
but are prior and necessary to such experience. 

b. They are si^nple truths, not resolvable into some 
prior and comprehending truth from which they may be 
deduced. 

c. As simple truths, they do not admit of proofs there 
being nothing more certain which can be brought in evi- 
dence of them. 

d. While they do not admit of proof, the denial of then 
involves us i?i absurdity. 

e. Accordingly, as simple, and as self-evident, they arc 
universally admitted. 

Enumeration of some of the Truths usually regarded as 
primary. — Different writers have included some mori', 
some fewer, of these Hrsf ])rinciples in their list; while no 



J 



FUEI^ISHED BY THIS FACULTY. 241 

one has professed, so far as I am aware, to give a complete 
enumeration of them. Such an enumeration, if it were 
possible, would be of great service in pliilosophy. The 
following have been generally included among primary 
truths by those who have attempted any specification, viz. ; 
our personal existence, our personal identity, the existence 
of efficient causes, the existence of the material world, the 
uniformity of nature ; to which would be added, by others, 
the reliability of memor}", and of our natural faculties 
generally, and personal freedom or power over our own 
actions and volitions. 

Correctness of this Enumeration. — That the truths now 
specified are in some sense primary, that they are generally 
admitted and acted upon, among men, without process of 
reasoning, and that, when stated, they command the uni- 
versal and instant assent of even the untaught and unreflect- 
ing mind, there can be little doubt. Whethei', in all cases, 
however, they come strictly under the rules and criteria 
now given; whether, for example, our own existence and 
identity are primary data of consciousness ; or whether, on 
the contrary, they are not inferred from the existence of 
those thoughts and feelings of which we are directly con- 
scious, as, for example, in the famous argument of Descartes, 
Oogito, ergo sum, may admit of question. 

§ II.-INTUITIVE CONCEPTIONS. 

Of the results or operations of the faculty under consider- 
ation, we have considered, as yet, only that class which may 
be designated as primary truths, in distinction from primi- 
tive or intuitive conceptions. To this latter class let us 
now direct our attention. 

Proposed consideration of some of the more important. — 
Without undertaking to give a complete list of our original 
or intuitive conceptions, there are certain of the more im- 
portant, which seem to require specific consideration. Such 
11 



'^42 TRUTHS AN 1) C O X C E I' T I O X S 

are the ideas of S2)ace, time, identity, cause, tlie beautiful, 
the right — ideas difficult to define and explain, but, on that 
account, requiring the more careful investigation. Let us, 
then, take up these conceptions one by one, and inquire 
more particularly into their nature. 

I. Space. 

Subjective View. — What is space ? Is it a mere idea, a 
mere conception of the mind, or has it reality ? This is a 
question which has much perplexed philosophers. Kant 
and his school regard both time and space as merely sub- 
jective, niere conceptions or forms which the mind imposes 
upon outward things, having no reality, save as concep- 
tions, or laws of thought. 

Opposite View. — On the other hand, if we make space a 
reality, and not a mere com;eption, what is it, and wiiere is 
it ? Not matter, and yet real, a something which exists, 
distinct from matter, and yet not mind. Pressed with 
these difficulties, some distinguished and acute writers have 
resolved time and space into qualities of the one infinite 
and absolute Being, the divine mind. Such was the view of 
Clarke and Newton, a view favored also by a recent French 
writer of some note — C. H. Bernard, Professor of Philoso- 
phy in the Lycee Bonaparte. 

A middle Ground. — These must be regarded as, on 
either hand, extreme views. But is there a middle ground 
possible or conceivable ? Let us see. What, then, is the 
simple idea of space ? What mean we by that word ? 

Idea of Space. — When we contemplate any material ob- 
ject, any existence of which the senses can take cognizance, 
we are cognizant of it as extended, i. e., occupying space, 
nor can we poi^sibly conceive of it as otherwise. The idea 
of space, then, is involved in the very idea of extended sub- 
stance, or material existence, given along with it, impossible 
to be separated from it. We may regard it, therefore, as 
the condition or 2^odulate of being, co7isidered as material 



FUKKISHED BY THIS FACULTY. 243 

existence^ possessing extension, etc. The idea of it is 
essential to the idea of matter, the reality of it to the 
reality of matter ; for if there were no space, there could 
be no extension in space, and, without extension, no 
matter. 

Not a mere Conception. — Is space, then, a mere con- 
ception of the mind, merely subjective ? XJnquestiouably 
not. It is not, indeed, a substance or entity, it has no 
heing. It is not matter, for it is, itself, the condition of 
matter ; it is not spirit, for then it were intelligent. It is 
not an existence, then, strictly speaking, not a thing 
created, nor is it in the power of deity either to create or 
to annihilate it, for creation and annihilation relate only to 
existence. And yet space is a reality, and not a mere con- 
ception of the mind. For, if so, then were there no longer 
any mind to conceive it, there would be no longer any 
space ; if no mind to think, then no thought. Were the 
whole race of intelligent beings, then, to be blotted out of 
existence, and all things else to remain as now, space would 
be gone, while, yet, matter would exist, extension — worlds 
moving on as before. Extension in what, motion in what ? 
Not in space, for that is no longer extant ; defunct, rather, 
with the last mind whose expiring torch went out in the 
gloom of night. Unless we make matter, then, to be also a 
mere conception of the mind, space is not so. If the one is 
real, the other is. If one is a mere conception, so is the 
other ; and to this result the school of Kant actually come. 
Matter, itself, is a subjective phenomenon, a mode of mind, 
or, rather, if it be any thing more, we have no means of 
knowing it to be so. 

If, on the contrary, as we hold, matter exists, and is an 
object of immediate perception by the senses, then there is 
such a thing as space also, the condition of its existence, a 
reality, though not an entity, the idea of it given along 
with that of matter, the reality of it implied in the reality 
of matter. Matter presupposes it, depends on it as its sine 



244 TRUTHS AND CONCEPTIONS 

qud noil. It depends on nothing. Were there no matter, 
there would be none the less space, but only space unoccu- 
pied. In that ease, the idea of space might never occur to 
any mind, but the reality would exist just as now. Were 
all matter and all mind to be blotted out of being, space 
would still be what it is now. 

The Idea, how awakened — How come we by our Idea of 
Space ? — Sense gives us our first knowledge of matter, as 
extended, etc., and so furnishes the occasion on which the 
idea of space is first awakened in the mind. In this sense, 
and no other, does it orig-inate in sensation or experience. 
It is a simple idea, logically prior to experience, because the 
very notion of matter presupposes space ; yet, chronologi- 
cally, as regards the matter of development in the mind, 
subsequent to experience and cognizance of matter. 

II. Time. 

Idea and Definition. — What we have said of space will 
enable us better to understand what is the nature of that 
analogous and kindred conception of the mind, in itself so 
simple, yet so difficult of definition and explanation— Time. 
The remarks already made, respecting space, will almost 
equally apply to this subject also. 

Space, we defined as the condition of being, regarded as 
extended, material. Time is the condition of being, regarded 
as in action, movement, change. 

Sense informs us not only of magnitudes, extensions, 
material objects, and existences, as around us in nature, but 
of movements and changes continually taking place among 
these various existences; sls extension \s essential to those 
material forms, so succession is essential to these movements 
and changes ; they cannot take place, nor be conceived to 
take place, without it; and as space is involved in, and 
given along with, the very idea of extension, so time is 
involved in, and given along with, the very idea of succes- 
sion. Time, then, is the condition of action, movement. 



FURKISHED BY THIS FACULTY. 245 

change, event, as space is of extended and material exist- 
ence. It is that which is required in order that something 
should take place or occur, just as space is that which is 
required in order that something should exist as material 
and having form. As space gives us the question lohere, 
time gives us the question luhen. It is the place of events, 
as space is of forms. 

Brown's View. — Dr. Brown defines time to be the mere 
relation of one event to another, as prior and subsequent. 
It follows, from this view, that if there were no events, then 
no time, since the latter is a mere relation subsisting among 
the former. Is this so ? No doubt we derive our idea of 
time from the succession of events ; but is time merely an 
idea, merely a conception, merely a relation, or has it reality 
out of and aside from our mind's conceiving it, and inde- 
pendent of the series of events that take place in it ? 

Not a mere Conception. — Like space, it is a law of 
thought, a conception, and like space it is not a mere law of 
thought, not a mere conception of the mind, not altogether 
subjective. Nor is it a mere relation of one event to another 
in succession. It is, on the contrary, necessary to, and 
prior to, all succession and all events. It does not depend 
on the occurrence of events, but the occurrence of events 
depends on it. As space would still exist were matter an- 
nihilated, so time would continue were events to cease. 
But were time blotted out there could be no succession, no 
occurrence or event. Time is essential, not to the mere 
thought or conception of events, but to the possibility of 
the thing itself. It is not, then, a mere idea, or conception 
of the mind, nor a mere relation. It bias, in a sense, objec- 
tivity and reality, since it is the ground and condition of all 
continuous active existence, as space is of all extended 
formal existence, the sine qua non, without w^hich not 
merely our idea and conception of such existence would 
vanish, but the thing itself. There could be no such thing 
as active continuous existence, either of mind or matter. 



246 TRUTHS AND CONCEPTIONS 

since mind and spirit, as continuous and persistent in any 
of its moods and phases, much more as passing from one to 
another of those moods, imi)]ics succession. Time is to 
mind what space is to matter. Matter protends in space, 
mind in time. Time is even less purely suhjective tlian 
space, for should we say that both matter and space are 
mere subjective phenomena, mere conceptions, yet even to 
those very conceptions, to those subjective phenomena, as 
states of mind, time is essential. 

Whence our Idea of Time. — It is Avith the idea of time 
as with that of space. Logically, time is the condition, A 
priori, of all experience, because of all continuous existence 
and all consciousness ; but chronologically it is a posteriori, 
/. c, it is, to us, a matter of sensible experience. Sense is 
the occasion on which tlie idea of time is first awakened in 
our minds. We first exist, continue to exist, are conscious 
of that existence, conscious of succession, thoughts, feelings, 
sensations, and so we get the idea of time. 

Time is necessary to succession ; yet had there been no 
succession known to us, we should have had no idea of 
time. We arc to distinguish, of course, between our idea 
of time and the thing itself. Locke is incorrect in making 
the idea of succession prior to that of duration, in itself 
considered, and not merely as regards our knowledge. In 
this respect. Cousin has ably and justly criticised the 
philosophy of Locke. 

Time a relative Idea. — Looking at time merely as an 
idea or conception of our own minds, it is simply the per- 
ception of relation; the relation of passing events to each 
other, the relation of our various modes and states of being, 
our thoughts, feelings, etc., to each other, as successive, or 
to external ol)jects and events, as also successive; the 
whereabouts, in a word, of one's self, one's present con- 
sciousness, in relation to what passes, or has passed, within or 
without ; the relation of the present nu^ to tlio former me, 
as regards both the succession of internal or external events. 



FURKISHED BY THIS FACULTY. 247 

Hence the mind has only to withdraw itself completely 
from the consciousness of its former states and of events 
passing without, and it loses altogether its idea of time. 

Thus in Sleep. — This we find to be the case in sleep. 
The thinking goes on; the idea of present self is kept up, 
but»not of self in j'elation to the objects that are really 
about us, or to the actual part of its own existence. What- 
ever relation seems to exist, is imaginary and untrue. We 
no longer know where we are, nor exactly who we are. 
The avenues of communication with the external world are 
shut up, the eye, the ear, etc., are inactive, the spirit with- 
draws from the outward into itself, as far as this is possible, 
while the connection of body and mind still continues; its 
relations to former things and to present things are forgot- 
ten and unknown. What is the consequence ? We lose 
all idea of time ; the moment of falling asleep and of our 
beginning to awake, if the sleep have been sound, is ap- 
parently one and the same moment. The first effect of 
returning consciousness is to resume the broken thread of 
time, to find your place again in the series of things, 
whether it is morning or night, what morning or what 
night it is; to find yourself, in fact. You had forgotten 
yourself, to use a familiar phrase exactly descriptive of the 
present case. What of yourself had you forgotten? 
Simply your relation to the order and succession of things 
without, and of thoughts and feelings within — your place 
in the series. In sleep, your existence, so far as it is an 
object of consciousness at all, is simply that of each passing 
moment by itself. 

Thus in absorbing Pursuits. —You have only, in your 
waking moments, to lose sight as completely of that rela- 
tion and succession of the present self to the past self, of 
the me to the not me, and you lose as completely all idea 
of time. Does this ever occur ? Partially, whenever the 
attention is absorbed in any intensely interesting pursuit or 
study. Time passes insensibly then. We are abstracted 



J248 TRUTHS AND C N C E P T 1 O If S 

from tlic series, our attentioii is witlidrawn from surround- 
ing objects and events, and even from our own thoughts, 
as such. We lose sight of the me, and, of course, of the 
relation of the me, to passing events, and therefore lose 
tlie sense of time. When the spell is at last broken we 
must go to seek ourselves again, as we would seek a child, 
that, in its play, had wandered from our side. 

Also in Disease. — Something of the same sort occurs in 
severe and protracted sickness. The mind loses its reckon- 
ing, so to speak, as a ship in a storm loses latitude and 
longitude, and wanders from its course, unable longer to 
take its daily observations. 

Idea of Time in Children. — You have doubtless noticed 
that children have little idea of time. It is much the same 
to them, one day with another, one week with another ; it 
is morning, or afternoon, or night indifferently. The dis- 
tinction and recognition of time, and of one time as differ- 
ent from another, is slowly acquired, and with difficulty. 
They have not that self-consciousness, that apprehension of 
the present and of the past, as related to each other in the 
series of events, which is involved in the idea of time. 
They are more like one in sleep, like one dreaming, like 
one in reverie, wholly absorbed with the present moment, 
the present consciousness. 

Time longer to a Child than an Adult. — What has been 
said explains, also, the well-known fact, that time seems 
longer to a child than to an adult pei-son. It is, as we have 
seen, the relation of the present self, as affected by clianges 
internal and external, to tlie j)ast self as thus affected, that 
gives us the idea and the standard of time. Of course, the 
shorter the line that represents the i)ast, the longer, in com- 
pari.son, that present duration which is measured ])y it. 
Now the child has fewer past thoughts and events with 
which to compare the present ones ; hence, they hold a 
greater comparative magnitude to him than to us, who have 
a greater range of past existence and past consciousness 



FUEIS'ISHED BY THIS FACULTY. 249 

with which to connect the passing moments. Hence, the 
longer we live, the more quickly pass our years, the shorter 
appears any given period of duration. 

Applied to eternal Duration. — You have but to apply 
this thought to Him whose going forth is from of old, who 
inhabiteth eternity, and you have a new meaning in the 
beautiful thought of the Hebrew poet, that with Him a 
thousand years are but as a day. To that eternal mind, the 
remoteness of the period when the first star lighted up the 
vault of night at his bidding, may be recent as an event of 
yesterday. 

ni. Identity. 

Difficult of Explanation.— Perhaps no subject, in the 
whole range of intellectual philosophy, has been the oc- 
casion of more perplexity and embarrassment than this. It 
is, in itself, a difficult subject to comprehend and explain. 
We know what we mean by identity, but to tell what that 
meaning is, to state the thing lucidly, and explain it philo- 
sophically, is another matter. It becomes necessary to 
examine the subject, therefore, with some care, in order to 
avoid confusion of ideas, and positively erroneous opinions. 
The subject is one of some importance in its theological, as 
well as its strictly philosophical bearings. 

Not Similarity. — Identity is not similarity, not mere 
resemblance — similar things are not the same thing. We 
may suppose two globes or spheres precisely alike in every 
respect — of the same size, color, form, of the same material, 
cf the same chemical composition and substance, presenting 
to the eye and the touch, and every other sense, the very 
same appearance and qualities, so that, if viewed succes- 
sively, we should not recognize the difference ; yet they are 
not identical ; they are, by the very supposition, tioo distinct 
globes, two entities, two substances, and to say that they 
are identical, is to say that two things are only one. Simi- 
larity is not identity; so far from it, as Archbishop Whately 



250 TRUTHS AND C N C P: P T I X S 

has well remarked, it is not even implied of necessity in 
identity. A person may so far change as to be (piite un- 
like his former self in appearance, size, etc., and yet be the 
same person. Not only are the two ideas quite distinct, but 
the one may be, and in fact is, in most cases, the virtual 
negation of the other. Resemblance, in most cases, implies 
difference of objects, the opposite of identity. To say that 
A and B resemble each other, is to say that, as known to us, 
they are 7iot one and the same, not identical. It is only 
when one and the same object falls under cognizance at di- 
verse times, so that we compare the object, as now known, 
with the same object as previously known, that resemblance 
and identity can possibly be predicated of the same thing. 

Identity is only another term ioY sameness {idem) ; any one 
who knows what that means, knows what identity means, 
and that it does not mean mere similarity or resemblance. 

Not sameness of chemical Composition. — Nor does same- 
ness of chemical composition constitute identity. This is 
merely similarity. Two bodies may be composed of the 
same chemical elements, in the same proportion, and pos- 
sessing the same general form and structure, yet they are 
not the same body. A given piece of wood or iron may be 
divided into a number of parts, each closely resembling the 
others, of the same appearance, size, figure, color, weight, 
and of the same chemical components ; yet no one of these 
is identical with any other. When we say, in such a case, 
that the different pieces are of the same material, we use 
the word same with some latitude, to denote, not that they 
are composed of strictly the same particles, that the sub- 
stance of the one is the very identical substcnce of the 
other, but only that they consist of the same sort or kind 
of substance, that they are, e. g.y both wood, or both iron. 
But this does not constitute identity. 

There is no limit to the number of identical bodies which 
it is possible to conceive on f his theory of idmitity. The same 
power that constructs one body of given chemical elements, 



FURiriSHED BY THIS FACULTY. 251 

and of given form and structure, may make two such, or 
ten, and if the first two are identical, the ten are, and they 
may exist at one and the same time, beside each other, 
identical with each other, yet ten, every one of which is 
itself, and yet every one is each of the others ! 

A relative Term.— Identity is a relative term', like most 
others that are expressive of quality. The tei'm straight 
implies the idea of that which is not straight ; beauty, the 
idea of deformity ; greatness, its opposite ; and so of others. 
Identity stands related to diversity as its opposite. To 
have the idea of identity, is to have that of diversity also. 
To affirm the former, is to deny the latter, and to deny is 
to have the idea of that which is denied. I do not say 
there can be no identity without diversity, but only that 
there can be no idea of the one without the idea, also, of 
the other, any more than there caji be the idea of a tall 
man without the idea of short men. 

Opposite of Diversity. — To affirm identity, then, is sim- 
ply to deny diversity, to predicate unity, sameness, oneness. 
Other objects there are, like this, it may be, similar in every 
respect, capable of being confounded with it, and mistaken 
for it, but they are other and not it. This we affirm when 
we affirm identity, non-diversity, non-otherness. Whatever 
it be that marks off and distinguishes a thing from all other 
like or unlike objects — whatever constitutes its individu- 
ality, its essence — in that consists its identity. 

Different applications of the Term. — Evidently, then, the 
word has somewhat different senses as applied to different 
classes of objects, whose individuality or essence varies. 
There are three distinct classes of objects to which the term 
is applicable. 1. Spiritual existence. 2. Organic and ani- 
mate material existence. 3. Inorganic matter. 

As applied to the first Class. — As regards the first class, 
spiritual existences, their identity consists in simple oneness 
and continuity of existence. It is enough that the soul or 
spirit exist, and continue to exist. So long as this is the 



252 TRUTHS AND CONCEPTIONS 

case, identity is predioable of it. Should that existence 
cease, the identity ceases, since the object no longer exists 
of which identity can be affirmed. Should another spirit 
be created in its place, and even, if the thing he supposahJe^ 
should it be endowed, not only with the same qualities, 
but the same consciousness, so as to be conscious of all that 
of which the former was conscious, still it would not be 
identical with the former. It is, by the very supposition, 
another spirit, and not the same. To be identical with it, 
it must be the very same essence, being, or existence, and 
not some other in its place. 

It is only of spiritual immaterial existence that identity, 
in its strict and complete sense, is properly prcdicable, 
since it is only this class of existences that retains, unim- 
paired, its simple oneness, sameness, continuity of essence. 

Personal Identity. — When we speak of j^ersonal identity, 
we mean that of the spirit, the soul, the ego, in distinction 
from the corporeal material part. The evidence of personal 
identity is conscionsness. We know that the thinking con- 
scious existence of to-day, which we call self, me, is one 
and the same with the thinking conscious self or me of 
yesterday, and not some other personal existence of like 
attributes and condition. 

Locke's Idea. — Mr. Locke strangely mistook the evidence 
of personal identity for identity itself, and affirmed that our 
identity consists in our consciousness. If this were so, then, 
whenever our consciousness were interrupted, as in sound 
sleep, or in fainting, or delirium, our identity would be 
gone. This error has been pointed out, and fully explained, 
by Dr. Reid, and Bishop Butler, the former of whom makes 
this supposition : that the same individual is, at different 
periods of life, a boy at school, a private in the army, and a 
military commander; while abo3^,hc is whipped for robbing an 
orchard ; when a soldier, he takes a standard from the enemy, 
and at that time recollect;-, iicrfectly, the whipping when a 
boy ; when commander, he remembers taking the standard 



FUKKISHED BY THIS FACULTY. 253 

but not the whipping. It follows, accordirjg to Mr. Locke, 
that the soldier is identical with the boy, and the general 
with the soldier, because conscious of the same tilings, but 
the general is not identical with the boy, because not con- 
scious of the same things, that is, a is 1), and 1) is c, yet a is 
not c. The truth is, identity^ and the evidence of it, are 
two things. Were' there no consciousness of any thing 
past, there would still be identity so long as unity and 
continuity of existence remained. 

2. Identity as applied to the second Class. — As regards 
organic material existence, whether animal or vegetable, the 
identity consists in that which constitutes the essence or 
being of the thing, which constitutes it an animal or A'ege- 
table existence. It is not mere body, not mere particles of 
matter, of such number and nature, or even of such arrange- 
ment and structure, but along with this there is a higher 
principle involved — that of life. The continuity of this 
mysterious principle of life, under the same general stroc- 
ture and organization of material parts, making throughout 
one complex unity, one entity, one being, though with 
many changes, it may be, of separate parts and particles 
composing the organization ; this constitutes the identity 
of the object. 

The identity is no longer complete, no longer absolute, 
because there is no longer, as in the case of spiritual exist- 
ence, absolute sameness of essence. Of the complex being 
under consideration, animal or vegetable, the life-principle is, 
indeed, one and the same throughout all periods of its exist- 
ence, but the material organization retains not the same 
absolute essence, only the same general structure, and form, 
and adaptation of parts, while the parts and particles them- 
selves are continually changing. It is only in a modified and 
partial sense, then,not in strict philosophical use of language, 
that we can predicate identity of any material organic exist- 
ence. We mean by it, simply, continuity of life under the 
same general structure and organization; for so far as it has 



254 T R U T PI S A X D C X r E r T I X s 

unity at all, this is it. This enables iis to distinguish such 
an object from any and all other like objects of the same 
kind or sort. 

3. Identity as applied to the third Class. — As regards 
mere inorganic matter, its identity consists, again, in its 
absolute oneness and sameness. There must be no change 
of particles, for the essence of the thing now considered 
lies not in any peculiarity of form, or structure, or life- 
principle, all which are wanting, but simply in the number 
and nature of the particles that make up the mass or sub- 
stance of the thing, and if these change in the least, it is 
no longer the same essence. There is, i->roperly, then, no 
such thing as identity in the cases now under consideration, 
since the particles of any material substance are liable to 
constant changes. It is only in a secondary and popular 
sense that we speak of the identity of merely inorganic 
material substance; strictly speaking, it has no identity, 
and continues not the same for any two moments. 

We say, however, of two pieces of paper, that they are of 
the same color, meaning that they arc both white or both 
red ; of two coins, that they are of the same fineness, the 
same size, and weight, etc., meaning, thereby, only that the 
two things are of the same soi^t of color, the same degree 
of fineness, etc., and not that the color of the one or the 
fineness and size of the one is absolutely the essential and 
identical color, size, fineness of the other. It is by a similar 
use of terms, not in their strict and proper, but in a loose 
and secondary sense, that we speak of the identity or same- 
ness of any material substance in itself considered. Strictly, 
it has no identity unless its substance is absolutely un- 
changed, which is not true of most, if, indeed, of any ma- 
terial existence, for any successive periods of time. 

Popular Use. — There is a popular use of this term 
which requires further notice. We speak of the identity of 
a mountain, a river, a tree, or any like object in nature. It 
is the same mountain, we say, that we looked upon in child- 



Frn>:iS!iE D by this faculty, 255 

hood^ the same tree under which we sat when a boy, the 
same river in which we bathed or fished in yonth. Kow 
there is a sense in which this is true and correct. There 
has been change of substance unquestionably, and therefore 
there is not absolute identity; but there is, after all, numer- 
ical sameness, and this is what we mean when we speak of 
the sameness or identity of the object. It constitutes a suf- 
ficient ground for such use of terms. You recognize the 
book, the mountain, the river, as one you have seen before. 
The tree that you joass in your morning walk you recognize 
as the very tree under which you sat ten years ago. Leaves 
have changed, bark and fibres have changed; branches are 
larger and more numerous; boughs, perhaps, have fallen by 
time and by tempest; it has changed as you have changed, 
it has grown old like yourself, with changing seasons; its 
verdure and foliage, hke your hopes and plans, lie scattered 
around it, and yet it is to you the same tree. How so ? It 
is the same numerical unity. Of a thousand or ten thou- 
sand similar trees, similar in species, in growth, and form, 
and adaptation of parts, in size, color, general appearance, 
etc., it is this individual one, and not some other of the 
same sort or species growing elsewhere, that you refer to. 
It is the same numerical unity and not some other one of 
the series. Still there must be continuity of existence in 
order to identity even in this popular sense of the term. 
Were the parts entirely changed and new ones substituted, 
as in the puzzle of the knife with several successive handles 
and blades, or the ship whose original timbers, planks, cord- 
age, and entire substance, had, in course of time, by con- 
tinued repairs, been removed and replaced by new; in such 
a case, we do not ordinarily speak or think of the object as 
being any longer the same. 

This not absolute Identity. — In the cases now under 
consideration, in which, in popular language, objects are 
termed "same" and "identical," which are not strictly so, 
there is comparative rather than absolute unity and identity. 



256 TRUTHS AND C O N C E T T I X S 

There is reference always in such cases to other objects of 
the same kind, sort, and description, a series of which the 
object of present cognition is one, and to which series it 
holds the same relation now that it held formerly. As 
when, of several books on a table, you touch one, and after 
the interval of some moments or hours touch the same 
again; you say. The book I last touched is the same I 
touched before, the identical one ; you do not mean that 
its suUtancG is absolutely unchanged,. that it has the same 
precise number of particles in its composition as before — 
this is not in your mind at all — but only that the unity 
thus designated is the same unity previously designated, 
that, and not some other one of the series of similar ob- 
jects. It is a comparative idea, a comparative identity, in 
Avhich numerical unity is the element chiefly regarded. 

Possible Plurality implied. — In all cases where the idea 
of identity arises in the mind, there is implied a possible 
plurality of objects of the same general character ; the idea 
of such diversity or plurality is before the mind, and the 
foundation of that idea is the difference of cognition. The 
same object is viewed by the same person at different times 
or by different persons at the same time, and in that case, 
though the object itself should be absolutely one and the 
same, yet there have been distinct, separate cognitions of 
it, and this plurality or difference of cognition is a suf- 
ficient foundation for the idea of a possible diversity of 
object. The book as knoivn to-day and the book as Icnoinn 
yesterday, are two distinct objects of thought. The cog- 
nition now, and the cognition then, are two separate acts 
of the mind; and the question arises, Are the objects dis- 
tinct, as well as the cognitions? This is the question of 
identity. You have an immediate, irresistible conviction 
that the object of these several cognitions is one and the 
samo. You aflirm its identity, absolute or comparative, as 
the ca^e may be. 

The Conception of Identity amounts to what. — In every 



FURBISHED BY THE FACULTY. 257 

case of affirmed identity, then, there is implied a possible 
plurality of objects ; a difference of cognition of a given 
object, Yviiether one person cognizant at different times, or 
different persons at the same time ; a question whether the 
possible plurality, as regards the object of these different 
cognitions, is an actual plurality ; a conyiction and decision 
that it is not, that the object is one and the same ; and this 
sameness and unity are absolute or comparative, according 
as we use the lang-uage in its strict, primitive, philosophical 
meaning, or in its loose and popular sense. In the one 
case, it is sameness of absolute essence, in the other, same- 
ness of nominal relation to others of a series or class. 

Vs. Cause. 

Meaning of the Term. — The idea of cause is one with 
which every mind is familiar. It is not easy, however, to 
explain precisely what we mean by it, nor to fix its limits, 
nor to unfold its origin. 

We mean by this term, I think, as ordinarily employed, 
that on which some consequence depends, that but for 
which some event or phenomenon would not occur. In 
order to affirm that one thing is the cause of another, I 
must know, not merely that they are connected, but that 
the existence of the one depends on that of the other. 
This is more than mere antecedence, however invariable. 
The approach of a storm may be invariably indicated by 
the changes of the barometer. These changes precede the 
storm, but are not the cause of it. 

Origin of the Idea. — WJience do toe derive the idea of 
cause? — a question of some importance, and much discussed. 

Evidenth' not from sense. I observe, for example, the 
melting of snow before the fire, or wax before the flame of 
a taper. What is it that I see in this case ? Merely the 
phenomenon, nothing more. All that sense conveys, all that 
the eye reports, is simply the melting of the one substance 
in the presence and vicinity of the other. I see no cause, no 



'^^^8 TRUTHS A X D CONCEPTIONS 

form trtinsmitted from the one to the other, no action of the 
one (m the other, but simply the vicinity of tlie two, and the 
change taking place in one. I infer that the change takes 
place in consequence of the vicinity. I believe it; and if 
the experiment is often repeated with the same results, I 
cannot doubt that it is so. The idea of causality is, indeed, 
suggestedhy Avhat I have seen, but is not given by sense. 
I have not seen the cause ; that lies hidden, occult, its nature 
wiiolly unknown, and its very existence known, not by what 
I have actually seen, but by that law of the mind which 
leads me to believe that every event must have a cause, and 
to look for that cause in whatever circumstance is known 
to be invariably connected with the given change or event. 

Constitution of the Mind. — That such is the constitution 
of the mind, such the law of its action, admits of no reason- 
able doubt. No sooner is an event or phenomenon ob- 
served, than we conclude, at once, that it is an effect, and 
begin to inquire the caase. "We cannot, by any effort of 
conception, persuade ourselves that there is absolutely no 
cause. 

Not derived from Sense. — But is not this principle of 
causality derived from experience ? We have already said 
that sense docs not give it. I do not see with the e3'e the 
cause of the melting of the wax, much less does Avhat I 
see contain the general principle, that ecery event must 
have a cause. Sense does not give me this. 

Whether from Consciousness. — Still, may it not be a 
matter of experience in another way, given by couscioiisnessy 
though not by se7ise. For example, I am conscious of cer- 
tain volitions. These volitions are accompanied with cer- 
tain muscular movements, and these, again, are followed by 
cortain sensible effects upon surrounding objects. These 
changes produced on objects without are directly con- 
nected thus with my own mental states and changes, with 
the volitions of wliicli I am directly conscious. Given, the 
volition on my part, with the corresponding muscular viTnri . 



FURKISHED BY THIS FACULTY. 259 

and the external change is produced. I never observe it 
taking place without such preceding volition. I learn to 
regard my will as the cause, and the external change as the 
effect, I observe that it is in the power of others to produce 
changes in like manner. Thus I obtain the general idea of 
cause. It is given by consciousness and experience. 

Notion of Causality not thus derived. — It is to this 
source that a Yery able and ingenious French philosopher 
would attribute our first idea of cause. I refer to Maine de 
Biran. I should agree with M. de Bir4n, that consciousness 
of our own voluntary e:fforts, and of the effects thus pro- 
duced, may give us our first notion of cause. But it does 
not give us the law of causality. It extends to a given in- 
stance only, explains that, explains nothing further than that, 
cannot go beyond. I am conscious that m this given in- 
stance I have set in operation a train of antecedents and 
sequences which results in the given effect. I am not con- 
scious that every event has, in like manner, a cause. My 
experience warrants no such assumption. No induction of 
facts and cases can possibly amount to this. Induction can 
multiply and generalize, but cannot stamp on that which is 
merely empirical and contingent, the character of univer- 
sality and necessity. The law of causality, in a word, is to 
be distinguished from any given instance, or number of in- 
stances, of actually observed causation. The latter fall 
within the range of consciousness and experience, the former 
is given, if at all, as a law of the mincl, a primary truth, an 
idea of reason. 

Remarks of Professor Bowen. — As Professor Bowen has 
well observed, '^The maxim, 'Every event must have a 
cau^e,' is not, like the so-called laws of nature, a mere in- 
duction founded on experience, and holding good only until 
an instance is discovered to the contrary; it is a necessary 
and immutable truth. It is not derived from observation of 
natural phenomena, but is super-imposed upon such observa- 
tion by a necessity of the human intellect. It is not made 



200 T R U T H S A N D C O N C E P T 1 O N S 

known through the senses; and its falsity, under any circum- 
stances, is not possible, is not even conceivable. The cause 
to which it points us, is not to be found in nature. The 
mere physicist, after vainly searching, ever since the world 
began, for a single instance of it, has, at length, abandoned 
the attempt as hopeless, and now confines himself to the 
mere description of natural phenomena. The true cause of 
these phenomena must be sought for in the realm, not of 
matter, but of mind" 

What constitutes Cause. — In this last remark, the author 
quoted touches upon a question of no little moment. What 
constitutes a cause ? Wo cannot here enter into the discus- 
sion of this question. It is sufficient to remark, that in the 
ordinary use of the word, as denoting that, but for which a 
mven result will not be, many thiniJ^s beside mind are in- 
eluded as causes. A hammer, or some like instrument, is 
essential to the driving of a nail. The hammer may be 
called the cause of the nail being driven; the blow struck 
by means of the hammer may also be so designated. More 
properly, the arm which gave the blow, and, more correctly 
still, the mind which willed the movement of the arm, and 
not the consequent blow of the hammer, may be said to be 
the cause. If w^e seek for ultimate and efficient causes, we 
must, doubtless, come back to the realm of mind. It is 
mind that is, in every case, the first mover, the originator 
of any effect, and it may, therefore, be called the true and 
prime cause, the cause of caiises. 

History of the Doctrine. — Aristotle's View. — The history 
of the doctrine of causality presents a number of widely 
different theories, a brief outline of which is aJl that we 
ran here give. The most ancient division and classifica- 
tion of causes is that of Aristotle, which is based on the fol- 
lowing analysis: Every work brought to completion implies 
four things: an agent by whom it is done, an element or 
material of which it is wrought, a plan or idea according to 
which it is fashioned, and an end for which it is produced. 



FURNISHED BY THIS FACULTY. 261 

Tims, to the production of a statue there must be a statu- 
ary, a block of marble, a plan in the mind of the artist, and 
a motive for the execution of the work. The first of these 
is termed the efficient cause, the second the material caus:% 
the third the formal, aud the fourth the final cause. This 
classiticdtion was universally adopted by the scholastic phi- 
losophers, and, to some extent, is still prevalent. We still 
speak of efficient and ot final causes. 

Locke's Derivation of Cause. — With regard to the origin 
of the idea of cause, there has been the greatest diversity of 
opinion. Locke derives it from sense ; so do the philoso- 
phers of the sensationalist school. We perceive bodies 
modifying each other, and hence the notion of causality. 

Theory of Hume and of Brown. — Hume denies the exist- 
ence of what we call cause, or power of one object over an- 
other. He resolves it into succession or sequence of objects 
in regular order, and consequent association of them in our 
thoughts. Essentially the same is the theory of Brown, 
who resolves cause and effect into simple antecedence and 
sequence, beyond which we know nothing, and can affirm 
nothing. 

Theory of Leibnitz. — The theory of Leibnitz verges upon 
the opposite extreme, and assigns the element of power or 
causal efficiency to every form of existence; every substance 
is a force, a cause, in itself. 

Of Kant. — Kant and his school make cause a merely 
subjective notion, a law of the understanding, which it im- 
presses upon outward things, a condition of our thought. 
We observe external phenomena, and, according to this law 
of our intelligence, are under the necessity of arranging 
them as cause and effect; but we do not know that, inde- 
pendent of our conception, there exists in reality any thing 
corresponding to this idea. The tendency of this theory, as 
well as that of Hume and Brown, to a thorough -going skep- 
ticism, is obvious at a glance. The theory of Maine de Biran 
has been already noticed. 



262 TRUTHS AND C O N C F. T T I X S , ETC. 

V. The Idea of the Beautiful, axd of Right. 

These Ideas Intuitive. — Among the primary ideas awak- 
ened in the mind by the facnlty of original or intuitive 
conception, ideas of reason, as some writers would prefer to 
call them, must be included the notion of the beauliful, and 
also that of 7-ig7d — ideas more important in themselves, and 
in their bearing on human happiness, than almost any others 
which the mind entertains. That these ideas are to be 
traced, ultimately, to the originative or intuitive faculty, 
there can be little doubt. They are simple and primary 
ideas. They have the characteristics of universality and 
necessity. They are awakened intuitively and instantane- 
ously in the mind, when the appropriate occasion is pre- 
sented by sense. There are certain objects in nature and 
art, which, so soon as perceived, strike us as beautiful. 
There are certain traits of character, and courses of conduct, 
which, so soon as observed, strike us as morally right and 
wrong. The ideas of the beautiful and the right are thus 
awakened in the mind on the perception of the correspond- 
ing objects. 

Things to be considered respecting them. — Viewed as 
notions of the intuitive faculty, or original conceptions, it 
w^ould be in place to consider more particularly the circum' 
stances under which each of these ideas originates, and the 
characteristics of each; also what constitutes, in either case, 
the object, what constitutes the beautiful and the right. 

These Topics reserved for separate Discussion. — These 
matters deserve a wider and fuller discussion, however, than 
would here be in place. The ideas under consideration are 
to be viewed, not merely as conceptions of the reason or 
intuition, but as constituting the material of two distinct 
and important departments of mental activity, two distinct 
classes of judgments, viz.. the cesthetic and the moral. The 
conceptions of the beautiful and the right, furaished by the 
originative or intuitive power of the mind, constitute tlie 



COI^CEPTION or THE BEAUTIFUL. 263 

material and basis on which the reflective power works, and 
as thus employed, the mental activity assumes the form, and 
is known under the familiar names oi taste and conscience, or, 
as we may term them, the aesthetic and moral faculties. As 
such, we reserve them for distinct consideration in the fol- 
lowing pages, bearing in mind, as we proceed, that these 
faculties, so called, are not properly new powers of the 
mind, but merely forms of the reflective faculty, as exer- 
cised upon this particular class of ideas. 



CHAPTEH HL 

THE CONCEPTION AND COGNIZANCE OF THE 
BEAUTIFUL 

§ I.-CONCEPTION OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 

The Science which treats of this. — The investigation of 
this topic brings us upon the domain of a science as yet 
comparatively new, and which, in fact, has scarcely yet as- 
sumed its place among the philosophic sciences — j^sthetics, 
the science of the beautiful. 

Difficulty of defining. — What, then, is the beautiful ? — 
A question that meets us at the threshold, and that has re- 
ceived, from different sources, answers almost as many and 
diverse as the writers that have undertaken its discussion. 
It is easy to specify instances of the beautiful without num- 
ber, and of endless variety ; but that is not defining it. On 
the contrary, it is only increasing the difficulty; for, where 
so many things are beautiful, and so diverse from each 
other, how are we to decide what is that one property which 
they all have in common, viz., beauty? The difficulty is to 
fix upon any one quality or attribute that shall pertain alike 
to all the objects that seem to us beautiful. A figure of 
speech, a statue, a star, an air from an opera, all strike us as 



264 CONCEPTION OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 

boiiutiful, all awaken in us the emotion which beauty alone 
can excite. But what have they in common ? It were easy 
to fix upon something in the case of the statue, or of the 
star, which should account, perhaps, for the pleasure those 
objects afford us; but the same tiling might not apply to 
the figure of speech, or to the musical air. It would seem 
almost hopeless to attempt the solution of the problem in 
this method. And yet there must ie, it would seem, some 
principle or attribute in which these various objects that w^e 
call beautiful agree, which is the secret and substance of 
their beauty, and the cause of that uniform effect which 
they all produce upon us. Philosophers have accordingly 
proposed various solutions of the i)roblem, some fixing upon 
one thing, some upon another; and it may be instructive to 
glance at some of these definitions. 

Some make it a Sensation. — Of those who have under- 
taken to define what beauty is, there are some Avho make it 
a mere feeling or sensation of the mind, and not an objec- 
tive reality of any sort. It is not this, that, or the other 
quality of the external object, but simi)ly a subjective emo- 
tion. It lies within us, and not without. Thus, Sir George 
Mackenzie describes it as *^a certain degree of a certain 
species of pleasurable effect impressed on the mind." So 
also Grohman, Professor of Philosophy at Hamburg, in his 
treatise on aesthetic as science, defines the beautiful to be 
"the infinite consciousness of the reason as feeling.'* As 
the true is the activity of reason at work as i7itellect or 
knoAvledge, and as the good is its province when it appears 
as tvill, so the beautiful is its activity in the domain of sensi- 
hility. Brown, Upham, and others, among English and 
American writers, frequently speak of the emotion of beauty, 
as if beauty itself were an emotion. 

Others an Association. — Closely agreeing with this class 
of writers, and hardly to be distinguished from it, is that 
which makes beauty consist in e^viwm associations of idea 
and feeling witli the object contemphited. This is the fa- 



COXCEPTIOX OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 266 

vorite doctrine with the Scotch metaphysicians. Thus Lord 
JefErey, who has written with great clearness and force on 
this subject, regards beauty as dependent entirely on asso- 
ciation, "the reflection of our own inward sensations." It 
is not, according to this view, a quahty of the object exter- 
nal, but only a feeling in our own minds. Its seat is within 
and not without. 

Theory that Beauty consists in Expression. — Of the same 
general class, also, are those who, with Alison, Eeid. and 
Cousin, regard beauty as the sign or expression of some 
quality fitted to awaken pleasing emotions in us. Xothing 
is beautiful, say these writers, which is not thus expressive 
of some mental or moral quality or attribute. It is not 
an original and independent quality of any peculiar forms 
or colors, says Alison, for then we should have a definite 
rule for the creation of beauty. It lies ultimately in the 
mind, not in matter, and matter becomes beautiful only as 
it becomes, by analogy or association, suggestive of mental 
qualities. The same is substantially the ancient Platonic 
view. Kant, also, followed in the main by Schiller and 
Fichte, takes the subjective view, and makes beauty a mere 
play of the imagination. 

All these Theories make it subjective. — Whether we re- 
gard beauty, then, as a mere emotion, or as an association of 
thought and feeling with the external object, or as the sign 
and expression of mental qualities, in either case we make it 
ultimately subjective, and deny its external objective reality. 

Different Forms of the objective Theory. — Of those who 
take the opposite view, some seek for the hidden principle 
of beauty in novelty ; others, as Galen and Marmontel, in 
iitilHy ; others, as Shaftesbury, Huteheson, Hogarth, in the 
principle of unity in variety ; others, in that of order and 
proportion, as Aristotle, Augustine, Crousez. 

All these writers, while they admit the existence of beauty 
in the external object, make it to consist in some quality or 
conformation of matter, as such. 
12 



2C)C) CONCEPTION OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 

The spiritual Theory. — There is still another theory of 
tlie beautiful, which, while admitting its external objective 
reality, seeks to divest it of that material nature in which 
the writers last named present it, and searches for its es- 
sence among principles ethereal and spiritual. According 
to this view beauty is the spiritual life in its immediate sen- 
sible manifestation ; the hidden, invisible principle — spirit 
in distinction from matter, animating, manifesting itself in, 
looking out through, the material form. It is not matter as 
such, it is not spirit as such, much less a mere mental qual- 
ity or mental feeling ; it is the exj^ression of the invisible 
and spiritual under sensible material forms. This view was 
first fully developed by Schelling and Hegel, and is adopted, 
in the main, by Jouffroy in his Cours d'Esthetique, by Dr. 
August Euhlert, of the university of Breslau, in his able 
system of aesthetics, and by many other philosophical writ- 
ers of distinction in Europe. 

Questions for Consideration. — The following questions 
grow out of these various and conflicting definitions, as 
presenting the real points at issue, and, as such, requiring 
investigation. 

I. Is beauty something objective, or merely subjective 
and emotional ? 

II. If the former, then what is it in the object that con- 
stitutes its beauty ? 

I. Question stated. — Is beauty merely subjective, an 
emotion of our own minds, or is it a quaHty of objects ? 
When we speak, e.g., of the beauty of a landscape, or of a 
painting, do we mean merely a certain excitement of our 
sensitive nature, a certain feeling awakened by the object, 
or do we mean some quality or property belonging to that 
object? If tlie latter, then are we correct in attributing 
any such quality to the object? 

Emotion admitted. — Unquestionably, certain pleasing 
emotions are aAvakened in the mind in view of certain ob- 
jects which we term beautiful ; unquestionably those objects 



COKCEPTION OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 2G7 

are the cause or occasion of such emotions ; they have, 
under favorable circumstances, the power of producing 
them ; unquestionably they have this power by virtue, 
moreover, of some quality or property pertaining to them. 
All this will be admitted by those who deny the objective 
reality of beauty. The question is not, whether there is in 
the object any quality which is the occasion or cause of our 
emotion, but whether the term beauty is properly the name 
of that cause, or of the emotion it produces. 

Beauty not an Emotion. — The question would seem a 
very plain one if submitted to common sense. It would 
seem strange that any one should deliberately and intelli- 
gently take the position that beauty and sublimity are merely 
emotions of our minds, and not qualities of objects : when 
we hear men speaking in this way, we are half inclined to 
suspect that we misunderstand them, or that they misun- 
derstand themselves. I look upon a gorgeous sunset, and 
call it beautiful. What is it that is beautiful ? That sky, 
that cloud, that coloring, those tints that fade into each 
other and change even as I behold them, those lines of fire 
that lie in brilliant relief upon the darker background, as 
if some radiant angel had thrown aside his robe of light as 
he flew, or had left his smile upon the cloud as he passed 
through the golden gates of Hesperus, these, these, are beau- 
tiful ; there lies the beauty, and surely not in me, the be- 
holder. An emotion is in my mind, but that emotion is not 
beauty; it is simple admiration, ^. e., wonder and delight. 
There is no such emotion as beauty, common as is the am- 
biguous expression " emotion of beauty." There are emo- 
tions of fear, hope, joy, sorrow, and the like, and these emo- 
tions I experience ; I know what they mean ; but I am not 
conscious of having ever experienced an emotion of beauty, 
though I have often been filled with wonder and delight at 
the sight of the beautiful in nature or art. When I experi- 
ence an emotion of fear, of hope, of joy, or of sorrow, what 
is it that is joyful or sorrowful, hopeful or fearful ? My 



208 CONCEPTION OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 

mind, of course, that is, I, myself. The object that occa- 
sioDs the emotion on my part, is in no other sense fearful 
or joyful than as it is the occasion of my being so. If, in 
like manner, beauty is an emotion, and I experience that 
emotion, it is, of course, my mind that is beautiful, and not 
the object contemplated. It is.I, myself, that am beautiful, 
not the sunset, the painting, the landscape, or any thing of 
that sort, whatever. These things are merely the occasion 
of my being beautiful. Could any doctrine be more con- 
soling to those who arc conscious of any serious deficiency 
on the score of personal attractions I Can any thing be 
more absurd ? 

The common View correct. — I beg leave to take the com- 
mon-sense view of this question, which I cannot but think 
is, in the present instance, the most cori-ect, and still to 
think and speak of the beauty of objects, and not of our own 
minds. Such is certainly the ordinary acceptation and use 
of the term, nor can any reason be shown wh}', in strictest 
philosophy, we should depart from it. There is no need of 
appl}ing the term to denote the emotion awakened in the 
mind, for that emotion is not, in itself, either a new or a 
nameless one, but simply that mingled feeling of wonder 
and delight which we call admiration, and which passes, it 
may be, into love. To make beauty itself an emotion, is to 
be guilty of a double absurdity. It is to leave the quality 
of the object which gives rise to the emotion altogether 
without a name, and bestow that name where it is not 
needed, on that which has already a name of its own. 

Beauty still objective, though reflected from the Mind. — 
If to this it be replied, that the beauty which we admire 
and which seems to be a property of the external object, is, 
nevertheless, of internal origin, being merely a transfer to 
the object, and association with it. of certain thoughts and 
feelings of our own minds, a reflection of our own conscious- 
ness gilding and lighting up the objects around us, which 
objects are then viewed by us jts liaving a light and beauty 



COKCEPTION OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 269 

of their own, I answer, tliat even on this supposition, the 
external object, as thus illumined, has the power of awak- 
ening the pleasing emotion within us, and that power is its 
beauty, a property or quality of the object still, although 
borrowed originally from the mind ; just as the moon, though 
it give but a reflected light, still shines, and with a beauty 
of its own. So long as those thoughts and feelings lay hid- 
den in. the mind, untransf erred, uuassociated with the ex- 
ternal object, they were not leauty. Not until the object is 
invested with them, and they have become a property of 
that object, do they assume, to the mental eye, the quality 
of beauty. So, then, beauty is even still an objective reality, 
something that lies without us, and not within us. 

The Power of expressing an objective duality, likewise. 
— In like manner, if it be contended that beauty is only the 
sign and expression of mental qualities, I reply, that power 
of signifying or expressing is certainly a property of the ob- 
ject, and that property is its beauty, and is certainly a thing 
objective, and not a mere emotion. 

All Beauty not Reflection, nor Expression.— I am far from 
conceding, however, that all beauty is either the reflection 
or expression of what passes within the mind. There are 
objects which no play of the fancy, no transfer or association 
of the mental states, can ever render beautiful ; while, on 
the other hand, there are others which require no such asso- 
ciation, but of themselves shine forth upon us with their own 
clear and lustrous beauty. Suppose a child of lively sensi- 
bility, and with that true love of the beautiful, v/herever 
discerned, which is one of the finest traits of the child's na- 
ture, to look for the first time upon the broad expanse of the 
ocean ; it lies spread out before him a new and sudden reve- 
lation of beauty; its extent of surface, unbroken by the 
petty lines and boundaries that divide and mark off the lands 
upon the shore ; its wonderful deep blue, a color he has seen 
hitherto only in the firmament above him, and not there as 
here — that deep blue relieved by the white sails, that, like 



270 CONCEPTION OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 

birds of snowy wing, flit across its peaceful bosom, or lie 
motionless in the morning light on its calm expanse ; its 
peculiar convexity of surface, as it stretches far out to the 
horizon, and lifts up its broad shoulders against the tkv; — 
these things he beholds for the first time, they are a. sociated 
with nothing in his past experience; he has never scon, 
never dreamed of such a vision ; it is not the reflection of 
his own thoughts or fancies; but it is, nevertheless, to him 
a scene of rare and wondrous beauty, the recollection and 
first impression of which shall haunt him while he lives. If, 
in after life, he came to philosophize upon the matter, it 
would be difficult to convince him that what he thus ad- 
mired was but the play of his own imagination, the transfer 
of his own mental state, the association of his own thought 
and feeling with the object before him; in a word, that the 
beauty which so charmed him lay not at all in the object 
contemplated, but only in his own mind. 

A further Question. — That the beauty which we perceive 
is a quality of objects, and not merely a subjective emo- 
tion, that there is in the object something which, call it 
what we will, is the producing cause of the emotion in us, 
and that this objective cause, whatever it be, is, in the proper 
use of terms, to be recognized as beauty, this we have now 
sufficiently discussed. Admitting, however, these joositions, 
the question may still arise, whether that which we call 
beauty in objects has, after all, au absolute existence, inde- 
pendent of the mind that is impressed by it ? The beauty 
that I admire in yonder landscape, or in the wild flower that 
blooms at my feet, is, indeed, the beauty of the landscape 
or the flower, and not of my mind ; it pertains to, and dwells 
in, the object, and not in me; but dwells it there independ- 
ently of me, the observer, and when I do not behold it ? If 
tliere were no intelligent, ol)serving mind, to behold and feel 
that beauty, would the object still be beautiful, even as now ? 
This admits of question. Is the beauty a fixed, absolute 
quality, inherent in the object as such, and per se, or is it 



CONCEPTION OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 271 

something springing out of the relation between the mind 
of the obseryer and the object obseryed. 

No Evidence of its Existence except its Effect.— That it 
is relative, and not absolute, may be argued from the fact 
that we have no evidence of any such quality or cause, save 
a3 in operation, saye as producing effects in us ; and as we 
could never have inferred the existence of the cause, had 
it not been for the effect produced, so we have no reason 
to suppose its existence when and where it does not mani- 
fest itself in operation, that is to say, when and where it 
is not observed. As the spark from the smitten steel is not 
strictly to be regarded as itself a property of the steel, nor 
yet of the flint, but as a relative phenomenon arising from 
the collision of the two, so beauty, it may be said, dwells 
not absolutely in the object per se, nor yet in the intel- 
ligent subject, but is a phenomenon resulting from the re- 
lation of the two. 

Further Argument from diversity of Effects. — The same 
may be argued from the diversity of the effects produced. 
If beauty is a fixed, absolute quality of objects, it may be 
said, then the effects ought to be uniformly the same ; 
whereas there is, in fact, no such uniformity, no standard 
of beauty, none of taste, but what seems to one man ex- 
ceedingly fine, excites only the aversion and disgust of 
another, and even the same person is at different times 
differently affected by the same object. Hence it may be in- 
ferred that the beauty is merely a relation between the mind 
and the object contemplated, varying as the mind varies. 

Reply to the first Argument. — To these arguments I 
reply, in the first place, that it is not necessary that a cause 
should be in actual operation, under our immediate eye, in 
order that we should conclude its independent and constant 
existence. If, whenever the occasion returns, the effects 
are observed, we conclude that the cause exists per se, and 
not merely in relation to us. Otherwise we could never be- 
lieve the absolute existence of any thing, but should, with 



27;i CONCEPTION OF THE B E A U T I F U L . 

Berkley and Hume, call in question the existence of matter 
itself, save as i)lienomenal and relative to our senses. The 
same argument that makes the beauty of a rose relative 
merely to the observer, nuikes the rose itself merely a rela- 
tive existence. How do I know that it exists? I see it, 
feel it, smell it ; it lies upon my table ; it affects my senses. 
I turn away now. I leave the room. How do I know now 
lliat the rose exists ? It no longer affects my senses ; the 
cause no longer operates ; the effect is no longer produced. 
I have just as much reason to say it no longer exists, as to 
say it is no longer beautiful. 

Reply to the second Argument. — To the argument from 
the diversity of effect, I reply, that admitting the fact to 
be as stated, viz., that the same object is differently regarded 
by different minds, the diversity may arise from either of 
two sources. The want of uniformity may lie in the cause, 
or it may lie in the minds affected by it. The exciting 
cause may vary, and the effects produced by it will then be 
diverse ; or the miuds on which it operates may differ, and 
in that case, also, the effects will be diverse. AVe are not 
to conclude, then, from diversity of effect that the cause is 
not uniform. A beautiful object, it is true, affects different 
observers differently, but the reason of the diversity may 
be in tliem and not in the object. 

What then is the fact? Arc the minds of all observers 
equally susceptible of impression from the beautiful? By 
no means. They differ in education, habit of thought, 
culture, taste, native sensibility, and many other things. 
Hardly two minds can be found that are not diverse in 
these respects. Ought we then to expect absolute.' uni- 
formity of effect ? 

Not to be conceded that there is no Agreement. — It is by 
no means to be conceded, however, that there is no sucii 
thing as a standard of beauty or of taste, no general agree- 
ment among men as to what is or is not beautiful, no gen- 
eral agreement as to the emotions produced. There is such 



COKCEPTION OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 273 

agreement in both respects. Within certain limits it is 
uniform and complete. Certain aspects of nature, and 
certain works of art, are, in all ages, and by all men, re- 
garded as beautiful. The Apollo Belvidere, and the Venus 
of the Capitol, are to us what they were to the ancients ; 
the perfection of >the beautiful. The great work of 
Raphael, scarcely finished at his death, the last touches 
still fresh from his hand — that work which, as it hung 
above his bier, drey/ tears from all eyes, and filled with ad- 
miration all hearts — is still the wonder and admiration of 
men. And so it will be in centuries to come. And so of 
the emotions produced by the contemplation of the beauti- 
ful. Making due allowance for habits of association, men- 
tal culture, and differences of native sensibility, we sliall 
find men affected much in the same way by the beautiful 
in nature or art. The men of the same class and con- 
dition as to these matters — the peasant of one age or 
country, and the peasant of another, the philosopher of 
one time, and of another, the wealthy, uneducated citizen, 
and the fashionable fool, of one period and nation, and of 
another — experience much the same effects in view of one 
and the same object. The same general laws, too, preside 
over and regulate the different arts which have relation to 
the beautiful, in all ages of the world. 

Consequences of the Theory that Beauty is merely relative. 
— If beauty be not absolute but relative only, it follows, 1. 
That, if there were no observers of nature or art, neither 
would be longer beautiful. 2. If, for any reason any thing 
is for the time unseen, as, e. g., a pearl in the sea, a precious 
stone in the mine, or a rich jewel in the casket, it has no 
beauty so long as it is there and thus. 3. As minds vary in 
susceptibility of impression, the same thing is beautiful to 
one person and not to another ; at one time and not at an- 
other ; nay, at one and the same moment it is both beautiful 
and not beautiful, according as the minds of the observers 
vary. I cannot say with truth, that the Mosaics of St. Peter's, 



274 CONCEPTION or the beautiful. 

or the great diamond of tlie East, are, at this moment, 
really beautiful, because I do not know who, or wliether 
any one, may, at this moment, be looking at them. 

Intimate Relation between the Mind and the Object. — 
While I maintain, however, the existence of beauty as an 
absolute and independent quality of objects, and not merely 
as relative to the mind that perceives and enjoys it, I 
would, by no means, overlook the very intimate relation 
which subsists, in the present case, between the perceiving 
mind and the object perceived. Beauty makes its appeal 
primarily to the senses. It pleases and charms us, because 
we are endowed with senses and a nature fitted to receive 
pleasure from such objects. In the adaptation of our 
physical and mental constitution to the order and constitu- 
tion of material things as they exist without, lies the secret 
of that power which the beautiful exerts over us. 

Might have been otherwise constituted. — We might have 
been so constituted, doubtless, that the most beautiful ob- 
jects should have been disgusting, rather than pleasing : 
the violet should have seemed an ugly thing, and the 
sweetest strains of music harsh and discordant. There are 
disordered senses, and disordered minds, to which, even 
now, those things, which we call beautiful, may so appear. 
For that adaptation of our sensitive nature to external ob- 
jects, and of these objects to our sensitive nature, by virtue 
of which, the percipient mind recognizes and feels the 
beauty of the object perceived, and takes delight in it, we 
are indebted wholly to the wisdom and benevolence of the 
great Creator. 

The Doctrine maintained.— Still, given, the present con- 
stitution and mutual adaptation of mind and matter, and we 
affirm the independent existence of tlie beautiful as an oh- 
ject per se, and not merely as an affection of the percipient 
mind. The perception and enjoyment of tlie beauty are 
subjective, relative, dependent; the beauty itself not so. 

The second Question. — If beauty be, then, as we find rea- 



COlSrCEPTIOK OF THE BEAUTIEUL. 275 

son to believe, not wholly a subjective affair, but a quality 
or property of external objects, the question now arises, 

II. What is it in the object, that constitutes its beauty ? 

Theory of Novelty. — And first, is it the novelty of the 
thing ? Is the novel the beautiful ? Doubtless, novelty 
pleases us. It has, this in common with the beautiful. 
Yet some things that are novel, are by no means beautiful. 
A mill for grinding corn is a great curiosity to one who 
has never seen such a machine before, but it might not 
strike him as particularly beautiful. 

Every thing, when first beheld, is novel; but every thing 
is not beautiful. Let us look more closely at the element 
of novelty. That is novel which is new to us merely, which 
appears to us for the first time. It may be new to the in- 
tellect, a new idea, or to the sensibility, a new feeling, or to 
the will, a new act. As a new idea it satisfies our curiosity, 
as a new feeling it developes our nature, as a new volition 
it enlarges the sphere of our activity. In these respects, 
and for these reasons, novelty pleases, but in all this we 
discover no resemblance to the beautiful. 

Novelty heightens Beauty. — It is not to be denied that 
novelty, in many cases, heightens the beauty of an object. 
By familiarity, we become, in a measure, insensible to the 
charms of that which, as first beheld, filled us with delight. 
The sensibility receives no further excitement from that 
to which it has become accustomed. To enjoy mountain 
scenery most highly, one must not always dwell among the 
mountains. To enjoy Niagara most highly, one must not 
live in the sight of it all his days. But beauty, and the 
enjoyment of the beautiful, are surely different things, and 
while novelty is accessory to the full effect of the beautiful 
on our minds, and even indispensable to it, it is not, itself, 
the element of beauty, not the ground and substance of it. 

Not always pleasing.— Jouffroy even denies that novelty 
is always pleasing. Some things, he contends, disjjlease us, 
cimply because they are new. We become accustomed to 



276 CONCEPTION OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 

them, and our dislike ceases. Thus it is, to some extent, 
with difference of color in the races. 

Theory of the Useful. — Is, then, the useful tlie beautiful ? 
This theory next claims our attention. The foundation of 
the emotions awakened in us by the beautiful in nature or 
art, is the perception of utility. We perceive in the object 
a fitness to conduce, in some way, to our welfare, to serve, 
in some way, our purposes, and for this reason, we are 
pleased. The utility is the beauty. 

The most useful not the most beautiful— That tlie 
beauty of an object may, in our perception, be heightened 
by the discovery of its fitness to produce some desirable 
end, or rather, that this may add somewhat to the pleasure 
we feel in view of the object, is quite possible ; that this 
is the main element and grand secret, either of that emo- 
tion on our part, or of the beauty which gives rise to it, is 
not possible. It is sufficient to say, that, if this were so, 
the most useful things ought, of course, to be the most 
beautiful. Is this the case ? A stream of water conducted 
along a ship canal is more useful than the same stream 
tumbling over the rapids, or plunging over a perpendicular 
precipice. Is it also more beautiful ? A swine's snout, to 
use a homely but forcible illustration of Burke, is admi- 
rably fitted to serve the purpose for which it was intended ; 
useful exceedingly for rooting and grubbing, but not, on 
the whole, very beautiful. 

Dissimilarity of the two. — Indeed, few things can be 
more unlike, in their effect upon the mind, in the nature of 
the emotions they excite, than the useful and the beautiful. 
This has been well shown by Jouffroy in his analysis of the 
Ijeautiful. Kant has also clearly pointed out the same thing. 
Both please us, but not in the same way, not for the same 
reason. We love the one for its advantage to us, the other 
for its 07071 sake. Tlic one is a purely selfish, the other a 
purely disinterested love, a noble, elevated emotion. The 
two are heaven-wide a.sunder. The glorious sunset is of no 



COKCEPTIOI^ OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 277 

earthly use to us, otherwise than mere beauty and pleasure 
are in themselves of use. The gorgeous spectacle becomes 
at once degraded in our own estimation by the very ques- 
tion of its possible utility. We love it not for the benefit it 
confers, the use we can make of it, but for its own sake, its 
own sweet beauty, because it is what it is. There it lies, 
pencilled on the clouds, evanescent, momentarily changing. 
There it is, afar off. You cannot reach it, cannot com- 
mand its stay, have no wish to appropriate it to your- 
self, no desire to turn it to your own account, or reap 
any benefit from it, other than the mere enjoyment; still 
you admire it, still it is beautiful to you. Of what use to 
the beholder is the ruddy glow and flash of sunrise on the 
Alpine summits as seen from the Ehigi or Mont Blanc ? 
Of what use, in fact, is beauty in any case, other than as it 
may be the means of refining the taste, and elevating the 
mind? That it has this advantage we are free to admit ; and 
it is certainly one of the noblest uses to which any thing can 
be made subservient ; but surely this cannot be what is 
meant when we are told that beauty consists in utility, for 
this would be simply affirming that the cause consists in the 
effect produced. Beauty refines and elevates the mind, is a 
means of aesthetic and moral culture; as such it is of use, and 
in that use lies the secret and the subtle essence of beauty 
itself. In other words, a given cause produces a given ef- 
fect, and that effect constitutes the cause ! 

The utility of Beauty an incidental Circumstance. — The 
truth is, that while the beautiful does elevate and ennoble 
the mind, and thus furnish the means of the highest 
aesthetic and moral culture, this advantage is wholly inci- 
dental to the existence of beauty, not even a necessary or 
invariable effect, much less the constituting element. This 
is not the reason why we admire the beautiful. It does not 
enter into our thoughts at the moment. As on the summit 
of Rhigi, I watch the play of the first rosy light on the 
snowy peaks that lift themselves in stately grandeur along 



278 CONCEPTION OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 

the opposite horizon, 1 am not thinking, at that moment, 
of the effect produced on my own mind, by the spectacle 
before me; I am wholly absorbed in the magnificence of 
the scene itself. It is beautiful, not because it is useful, 
not because it elevates my mind, and cultivates my taste, 
and contributes, in various ways, to my development, but 
it produces these effects because it is beautiful. The very 
tliought of the useful is almost enough, in such cases, to 
extinguish the sentiment of the beautiful. 

Beauty cannot be appropriated. — That only is useful 
which can be appropriated, and turned to account. But 
the beautiful, in its very nature, cannot be appropriated or 
possessed. You may appropriate the picture, the statue, 
the mountain, the waterfall, but not their beauty. These 
do not belong to you, and never can. They are the property 
of every beholder. Hence, as Jouffroy has well observed, 
the possession of a beautiful object never fully satisfies. 
The beauty is ideal, and cannot be possessed. It is an ethe- 
real spirit that floats away as a silver cloud, ever near, yet 
ever beyond your grasp. It is a bow, spanning the blue 
arch, many-colored, wonderful ; yonder, just yonder, is its 
base, where the rosy light seems to hover over the wood, 
and touch gently the earth; but you cannot, by any flight 
or speed of travel, come up with it. It is here, there, every- 
where, except where you are. It is given you to behold, 
not to possess it. 

Theory of Unity in Variety. — Evidently we must seek 
elsewhere than in utility the dwelling-place of beauty. The 
secret of her tabernacle is not there. Let us see, then, if 
unity in variety may not be, as some affirm, the principle 
of the beautiful. The intellect demands a general unity, 
as, e. g., in a piece of music, a painting, or a play, and is 
not satisfied unless it can perceive such unity. The parts 
must be not only connected but related, and that relation 
must be obvious. At the same time the sensibility demands 
variety, as, c. g.^ of tone and time in the music, of color and 



CONCEPTIOK OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 279 

shade in the painting, of expression in both. The same 
note of a musical instrument continuously produced, or the 
same color unvaried in the painting, would be intolerable. 
The due combination of these two principles, unity and va- 
riety, say these writers, constitutes what we call beauty in 
an object. The waving line of Hogarth may be taken as 
an illustration of this principle. 

Objection to this View. — Without entering fully into the 
discussion of this theory, it may be sufficient to say, that 
while the principle now named does enter, in some degree, 
into our conception of the beautiful, it can hardly be ad- 
mitted as the ground and cause, or even as the chief element, 
of beauty. N'ot every thing is beautiful which presents 
both unity and variety. Some things, on the other hand, are 
beautiful which lack this combination. Some colors are 
beautiful, taken by themselves, and the same is true of cer- 
tain forms, which, nevertheless, lack the element of variety. 
In the construction of certain mathematical figures, which 
please the eye by their symmetry and exactness, we may 
detect, perhaps, the operation of this principle. On the 
other hand, it will not account for the pleasure we feel when 
the eye rests upon a particular color that is agreeable. A 
bright red pebble, or a bit of stained glass, appears to a child 
very beautiful. It is the color that is the object of his admi- 
ration. We have simple unity but no variety there. On the 
other hand, in a beautiful sunset we have the greatest va- 
riety, but not unity, other than simply a numerical unity. 

We cannot, on the whole, accept this theory as a com- 
plete and satisfactory resolution of the problem of the beau- 
tiful, although it is supported by the eminent authority of 
Cousin, who, while he regards all beauty as ultimately per- 
taining to the spiritual nature, still finds in the princijDle, 
now under consideration, its chief characteristic so far as 
it assumes external form. 

Order and Proportion.— Shall we then, with Aristotle, 
A.ugustine, Andre, and others, ancient and modern, seek the 



280 CONCEPTION OF THE B E A T T I F U L . 

hidden principle of beauty in the elements of order and pro- 
portio?i 9 Wiuit arc order and proportion ? Order is the 
arrangement of the several parts of a composite body. Pro- 
portion is the relation of the several parts to each other in 
space and time. Not every possible arrangement is order, 
but only that which appears conducive to the end designed, 
and not every possible arrangement of parts is proportion, 
but only that which furthers the end to be accomplished. 
To place the human eye in the back part of the head, the 
limbs remaining as they now are, would be disorder, for 
motion must in that case, as now, be forward, while the eye, 
looking backward, could no longer survey the path we tread. 
The limbs of the Arabian steed, designed for swiftness of 
locomotion, bear a proportion to the other parts of tlie body, 
somewhat different from that which the limbs of the swine, 
designed chiefly for support, and for movements slower, and 
over shorter distances, bear to his general frame. The pro- 
portion of each, however, is perfect as it is. Exchange each 
for each, and they are quite out of proportion. 

Only another Form of the Useful. — Since order and pro- 
portion, then, have always reference to the end proposed to 
be accomplished, we have, in fact, in these elements, only 
another form of the useful, which, as we have already seen, 
is not the principle of beauty. 

Not always Beautiful. — Accordingly, we find that order 
and proportion do not, in themselves, and when unassociated 
with other elements, invariably strike us as beautiful. The 
leg of the swine is as fine a specimen of order and propor- 
tion as that of the Arab courser, but is not so much admired 
for its beauty. It must be admitted, however, that these 
elements in combination, do with otliors, enter more or less 
fully into the formation of the beautiful, are intimately asso- 
ciated with its external forms. The absence or violation of 
those principles would mar I ho beauty of the object. 

The spiritual Theory. — The only theory of beauty re- 
mainin.D: to be noticed is tiie spiritual theory, which makes 



COKCEPTIOK OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 281 

beauty consist, not in matter as such, nor in any mere ar- 
rangement of matter in itself considered, but in the mani- 
festation or expression, under these sensible material forms, 
of the higher, the liidden spiritual nature, or element, ap- 
pealing thus to our own spiritual nature, which is thereby 
awakened to sympathy. In the sensible world about us we 
find two elements diverse and distinct each from the other, 
the idea and the form, spirit and matter, the inyisible and 
the visible. In objects that are beautiful we find these two 
elements united in such a way, that the one expresses or 
manifests the other, the form expresses the idea, the body 
expresses the spirit, the visible manifests the invisible, and 
our own spiritual nature recognizing its like, holds com- 
munion and sympathy with it as thus expressed. That 
which constitutes the beautiful, then, is this manifestation, 
under sensible forms, and so to our senses, of the higher 
and spiritual principle which is the life and soul of 
things. 

Relation of the Beautiful to the True and the Good. — It 
differs from the true in that the true is not, like the beauti- 
ful, expressed under sensible forms, but is isolated, pure, ab- 
stract, not addressed to the senses, but to reason. It differs 
from the good in that the good always proposes an end to be 
accomplished, and involves the idea of obligation, while the 
beautiful, on the contrary, proposes no end to be accom- 
plished, acknowledges no obligation or necessity, but is 
purely free and spontaneous. Yet, though differing in these 
aspects, the good, the true, and the beautiful, are at basis 
essentially the same, even as old Plato taught, differing 
rather in their mode of expression, and the relations which 
they sustain to us, than in essence. 

Relation of the Beautiful to the Sublime. — The relation 
of the beautiful to the suUime, according to this theory, is 
simply this : In the beautiful, the invisible and the visible, 
the finite and the infinite, are harmoniously blended. In the 
sublime, the spiritual element predominates, the harmony is 



2S'l C X C E P T 1 O N OF THE B E A U T 1 F U L . 

disturbed, the sensible is overborne by the infinite, and our 
spirits are agitated by the presenco, in an unwonted degree, 
of the higher element of our own being. Hence, while the 
one pleases, the other awes and subdues us. 

Application of this Theory. — Such, in brief outline, is the 
theory. Let us see now whether it is applicable to the dif- 
ferent forms of beauty, and whether it furnishes a satisfac- 
tory explanation and account of them. 

Surveying the different forms of being, we find among 
them different degrees of beauty. Does, then, every thing 
which is beautiful express or manifest, through the me- 
dium, and, as it were, under the veil, of the material form, 
the presence of the invisible spiritual element ? and the 
more beautiful it is, does it so much the more plainly and 
directly manifest this element? 

The Theory applied to inorganic Forms. — And first, to 
begin with the lowest, how is it with the inanimate, inor- 
ganic, merely chemical forms of matter? Here we have 
certain lines, certain figures, certain colors, that we call 
beautiful. What do they express of the higher or spiritual 
element of being ? In themselves, and d irectly, they express 
nothing, perhaps. Yet are they not, after all, suggestive, 
symbolical of an idea and spirit dwelling, not in them, but 
in him who made them, of the Creator's idea and spirit, inar- 
ticulate expressions, mere natural signs, of a higher principle 
than dwells in these poor forms ? Do they not suggest and 
express to us ideas of grace, elegance, delicacy, and the like ? 
Do we not find ourselves attracted by, and, in a sort, in sym- 
pathy with these forms, as thus significant and expressive? 
Is it not thus that lines, and figures,and mathematical forms, 
the regular and sharply cut angles of the crystal, the light 
that flashes on its polished surface, or lies hid in beautiful 
color within it, the order, proportion, and movement, by 
fixed laws, of the various forms of matter, appear beautiful 
to us ? For what are order, proportion, regularity, harmony, 
and movement, by fixed laws, and what arc elegance, and 



CONCEPTION OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 283 

grace of outline and figure, but so many signs and expres- 
sions of a higher intelligence ? 

Theory applied to vegetable Forms. — Passing onward 
and upward in the scale of being, taking into view, now, 
the organic forms of vegetable life, do we not find a more 
definite articulate expression of the spiritual and invisible 
under the material form ? The flower that blooms in our 
path, the sturdy tree that throws out its branches against 
the sky, or droops pensively, as if weighed down by some 
hidden sorrow, address us more directly, speak more inti- 
mately to our spirits, than the mere crystal can do, how- 
ever elegant its form, or definite its outline. They express 
sentiments, not ideas merely. They respond to the sensi- 
bilities, they appeal to the inner life of the soul. They are 
strong or weak, timid or bold, joyous or melancholy. It 
requires no vigorous exercise of fancy to attribute to them 
the sensibilities which they awaken in us. When in lively 
communion and sympathy with nature, we can hardly 
resist the conviction that the emotions which she calls into 
play in our own bosoms are, somehow, her own emotions 
also ; that under these forms so expressive, so full of mean- 
ing to us, there lurks an intelligence, a soul. 

To the animal Kingdom. — In the animal kingdom, this 
invisible spiritual principle, the energy that lies hidden 
under all forms of animate and organized substance, be- 
comes yet more strongly and obviously developed. The 
approach is nearer, and the appeal is more direct, to our 
own spiritual nature. We perceive signs, not to be mis- 
taken, of intelligence and of feeling ; passion betrays itself, 
love, hate, fear, the very principles of our own spiritual 
being, the very image of our own higher nature. Beauty 
and deformity are now more strongly marked than in the 
lower degrees of the scale of being. 

To Man. —In man we reach the highest stage of animal 
existence with which we are conversant, the highest degree 
of life, intelligence, soul — the bemg in whom the spiritual 



284 CONCEPTION OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 

sliines forth most clearly through the material veil — and, 
shall we not say also, the being most beautiful of all ? The 
highest style of beauty to be found hi nature pertains to the 
human form, as animated and lighted up by the intelligence 
within. It IS the expression of the soul that constitutes this 
superior beauty. It is that Avhich looks out at the eye 
which sits in calm majesty on the brow, lurks in the lip, 
smiles on the cheek, is set forth in the chiselled lines and 
features of the countenance, in the general contour of 
figure and form, and the i)articular shading and expression 
of the several parts, in the movement, and gesture, and 
tone; it is tliis looking out of the invisible spirit that 
dwells within, through the portals of the visible, this 
manifestation of the higher nature, that we admire and 
love; this constitutes to us the beauty of our species. 
Hence it is that certain features, not in themselves, per- 
haps, particularly attractive, wanting, it may be, in certain 
regularity of outline, or in certain delicacy and softness, are 
still invested with a peculiar charm and radiance of beauty 
from their peculiar expressiveness and animation. The light 
of genius, or the sujierior glow of sympathy, and a noble 
heart, play upon those plain, and, it maybe, homely features, 
and light them up with a brilliant and regal beauty. Those, 
as every artist knows, are precisely the features most diffi- 
cult to portray. The expression changes with the instant. 
The beauty flashes, and is gone, or gives place to a still 
higher beauty, as the light that plays in fitful coruscations 
along the northern sky, coming and going, but never still. 
Man not the highest Type of Beauty. — Is then the human 
form the highest expression of the principle of beauty ? It 
can hardly be; for in man, as in all things on the earth, is 
mingled along with the beauty mucli that is deformed, with 
the excellence much imperfection. We can conceive forms 
superior to his, faces radiant with a beauty that sin has 
never darkened, nor j)assion nor sorrow dimmed. Wo can 
conceive forms of beauty more perfect, purer, brighter, 



CONCEPTIOX OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 285 

loftier than any thing that human eye hath seen or human 
ear heard. We conceive them, however, as existing only 
under some sensible form, as manifest in some way to 
sense, and the beauty with which we • invest them is the 
beauty of the spiritual expressing itself in the outward and 
visible. It is the province of imagination to fashion these 
conceptions, and of art to attempt their realization. This, 
the poet, the painter, the sculptor, the architect, the 
orator, each in his way, is ever striving to do, to present 
under sensible forms, the ideal of a more perfect loveliness 
and excellence than the actual world affords. 

This ideal can never be adequately and fully represented. 
The perfection of beauty dwells alone with God. 

Consideration in favor of the Theory now explained. — 
It is in favor of the theory now under consideration, that 
it seems thus more nearly to meet and account for the 
various phenomena of beauty, than any other of those which 
have passed under our review, and that it accounts for 
them, withal, on a principle so simple and obvious. The 
crystal, the violet, the graceful spreading elm, the drooping 
willow, the statue, the painting, the musical composition, 
the grand cathedral, whatever in nature, whatever in art is 
beautiful, all mean something, all express something, and 
in this lies their beauty ; and we are moved by them, be- 
cause we, who have a soul, and in whom the spiritual na- 
ture predominates, can understand and sympathize with 
that which these forms of. nature and art, in their semi- 
articulate way, seem all striving to express. 

The Ideas thus expressed pertain not to Kature but to the 
divine Mind. — It is not necessary that, with the ancient 
Greeks, we should conceive of nature, as having herself an 
intelligent soul, of these forms as themselves conscious of 
their own meaning and beauty. It is enough that we re- 
cognize them as conveying a sentiment and meaning not 
their own, but his who made them, and made them repre- 
sentative and expressive of his own beautiful thought. 



28(5 COGNIZANCE OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 

Words are not the only modes of expression. Tlie soul 
speaks more earnestly and eloquently often in signs than 
in words. And when God speaks to men, he does it not 
always in the barren forms of human speech, but in the 
flower that lie places by my path, in the tree, in the moun- 
tain, the rolling ocean, the azure firmament. These are 
his words; and they are beautiful, and, when he will, they 
are terrible. Happy he who, in all these manifestations, 
recognizes the voice of God. 



§ II.-COGNIZANCE OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 

Beauty an Object of Cognition.— We have treated, in the 
preceding section, of the idea of the beautiful, in itself 
considered. We proceed to investigate the action of the 
mind as cognizant of the beautiful in its actual manifesta- 
tions, whether in nature or art. Beauty, as we have found 
reason to believe, is not a conception merely, existing only 
in the mind, but a quality of certain objects. As such it 
has objective value and existence, and the mind is cognizant 
of it as such, perceives it, observes it, compares it and the 
object to which it pertains with other like and unlike ob- 
jects, judges and decides respecting it. This quality of 
objects makes its appeal, as do all objects of perception, 
first to the senses, and through them to the mind. There 
is thus awakened in the mind, or suggested to it, the 
original and intuitive conception of the beautiful ; there is 
also, and beside this, the cognizance by the mind of the 
beautiful as an actual and present reality manifest in the 
object before it. As it perceives other objects of a like 
nature, it classes them with the preceding, compares them 
severally, judges of their respective merits, their respective 
degrees and kinds of beauty. This discriminating power 
of the mind, as exercised upon the various objects of 
beauty and sublimity, whether in nature or art, we may 
designate by the general name of fasfe. 



COGKIZANCE OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 287 

ITature of this Power. — There has been much difference 
of opinion as to the precise nature of this power, whether 
it is a distinct faculty of the mind, or the simple exercise 
of some faculty already known and described, whether it 
is of the nature of intellect, or of emotion, or the com- 
bination of both. Hence the various definitions of taste 
which have been given by different writers, some regarding 
it as strictly an intellectual faculty, others as an emotion, 
while the greater number regard it as including the action 
both of the intellect in perceiving, and of the sensibility in 
feeling, whatever is beautiful and sublime. 

"What has been already said, sufficiently indicates with 
which of these general views our own most nearly accords. 
We use the term taste to denote the mind's power of cog- 
nizing the beautiful, a power of knowing, of discriminating, 
rather than of feeling, an exercise of judgment and the re- 
flective power, directed to one particular class of objects, 
rather than any distinct faculty of the mind. Feeling is 
doubtless awakened on the perception of the beautiful ; it 
may even precede the judgment by which we decide that 
the object before us is truly beautiful ; but the feeling is 
not itself the perception, or the judgment ; is not itself 
taste, whatever may be its relation to taste. 

Proposed Investigation. — As this is a matter of some 
importance to a correct psychology, and also of much dif- 
ference of opinion, it seems necessary, for purposes of 
science, to investigate somewhat carefully the nature of 
this form of mental activity. It is not a matter to be set- 
tled by authority, by arbitrary definition, or dogmatic as- 
sertion. We must look at the views and opinions of others, 
and at the reasons for those opinions. 

Definitions. — As preliminary to such investigation, I 
shall present some of the definitions of taste, given by the 
more prominent writers, representing each of the leading 
views already indicated. 

Blair defines it ^^a power of receiving pleasure from the 



288 COGNIZANCE OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 

beauties of nature and art." Montesquieu, a French author 
of distinction, defines it "something which attaches us to 
certain objects by the power of an internal sense or feel- 
ing." Gerard, author of an Essay on Taste, makes it con- 
sist in the improvement of tlie internal senses, viz., rensc 
of noyelty, sublimity, beauty, imitation, harmony, etc. 
Accordant with this are the hues of Akcnside : 

" What, then, is taste but those internal powers, 
Active and strong, and feelingly alive 
To each fine impulse." 

Nature of these Definitions. — The definitions now given, 
it will be perceived, make taste a matter of seiisibility, of 
mere feeling, a sensation or sense, a passive faculty of being 
pleased with the beauties of nature and art. 

Another Class of Definitions.^ Differing from this, 
others have carefully distinguished between the rational and 
emotional elements, the power of discriminating and the 
power oi feeling, and have made taste to consist properly 
in the former. Of this class is Brown. M'Dermot also 
takes the same view. This author, in his critical disserta- 
tion on the nature and principles of taste, defines it as the 
power of discriminating those qualities of sensible and intel- 
lectual being, which, from the invisible harmony that exists 
between them and our nature, excite in us pleasant emotions. 
The emotion, however, though it may be the parent of 
taste, he would not regard as a constituent element of it. 

Definitions combining both Elements.— The greater num- 
ber, however, of those who have written on this subject, 
have combined in their definitions of taste both these ele- 
ments, the power of perceiving and the power of feeling. 
So Burke: "That faculty, or those faculties of tlie mind 
which are affected with, or which form a judgment of, the 
works of imagination and the elegant arts." Alison: "That 
faculty of the mind by which we perceive and ciijoy what- 
ever is beautiful or sublime in the works of nature and art." 



i 



C G J^ I Z A N E OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 280 

Reid also makes it consist in "the power of discerning and 
relishing" these objects. Voltaire makes the feeling quite 
a3 essential as the perception. Benard, Professor of Phi- 
losophy in the College Royal at Rouen, in the excellent 
article on taste^ in the Dictionnaire des Sciences Philoso- 
phiques, defines taste as "that faculty of the mind which 
makes us to discern and feel the beauties of nature, and 
whatever is excellent in works of art." It is a compound 
faculty, according to this author, inhabiting at once both 
worlds, that of sense and that of reason. Beauty reveals it- 
self to us only under sensible forms, the faculty which con- 
templates the beautiful, therefore, seizes it only in its sen- 
sible manifestation. The pure idea, on the other hand, in 
its abstract nature, addresses not the taste but the under- 
standing ; it appears to us, not as the beautiful, but as the 
true. Taste, then, has to do with sense. Still, says Be- 
nard, " the essential element which constitutes it, pertains 
to the reason; it is, in truth, only one of the forms of this 
sovereign power, which takes different names according to 
the objects which it deals with ; reason, properly speaking, 
when it employs itself in the sphere of speculative truth ; 
conscience^ when it reveals to us truths moral or practical ; 
taste, when it appreciates the beauty and suitablenesj of 
objects in the real world, or of works of art." 

These three Classes comprehensive. — Other authorities 
and definitions, almost without number, might be added, 
but they fall essentially under the three classes now speci- 
fied. Y/hich of these views, then, is the correct and true 
one? is the question now before us. Is taste a matter of 
feeling, or is it an intellectual discernment, or is it both ? 
Evidently we cannot depend on authority for the decision 
of this question, since authorities differ. We must examine 
for ourselves. 

Etymology of the Term. — To some extent the word it- 
self may guide us. Borrowed, as arc most if not all words 
expressing mental states and acts, from the sphere of sense, 
13 



200 COGNIZANCE OF THE B E A U T I F U L . 

there wns doubtless some reiison why this word in particu- 
lar was selected to denote the power of the mind now under 
consideration. Some close analogy, doubtless, was supposed 
to exist between the physical state denoted by this word in 
its primary sense, and the mental faculty to which we refer, 
so that, in seeking for a term by which to designate that 
intellectual faculty, none would more readily present itself, 
as appropriate and suggestive of the mental state intended, 
than the one in question. This analogy, whatever it be, 
while it cannot be taken as decisive of the question before 
us, is still an element not to be overlooked by the psychol- 
ogist. What, then, is the analogy ? How comes this word 
— taste — to be used, rather than any other, to denote the 
idea and power now under consideration ? 

Taste as a Sense. — In the domain of sense, certain ob- 
jects brought in contact with the appropriate physical 
organ, affect us as sweet, sour, bitter, etc. This is purely 
an affection of the sensibility, mere feeling. We say the 
thing tastes so and so. The power of distinguishing such 
qualities we call the power or sense of taste. Primarily 
mere sensation, mere feeling, we transfer the word to de- 
note the power of judging by means of that sensation. 
There is, in the first instance, an affection of the organ by 
the object brought in contact with it, of which affection 
we arc cognizant ; then follows an intellectual perception 
or judgment that the object thus affecting us, possesses 
such and such qualities, is sweet, sour, bitter, salt, etc. 
The sensation affords the ground of the judgment. The 
latter is based upon the former. The sensation, the sim- 
ple feeling, affords the means of discriminating, judging, 
distinguishing, and to this latter power or process the word 
taste, in the physical sense, is more fre((uently appropri- 
ated. We say of such or ;iuch a man, his taste is acute, or 
his taste is impaired, or dull, etc., meaning his power of 
perceiving and distinguishing the various ])ropertieH of ob- 
jects which affect our sense of laste. 



COGNIZANCE OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 291 

Analogy of this to the mental Process called Taste. — 

It is easy to perceive, now, the analogy between the phy- 
sical power and process thus described, and the psycho- 
logical faculty under consideration, to which the name 
primarily denoting the former has been transferred. Ob- 
jects in nature and^art present themselves to the observa- 
tion, and awaken pleasure as beautiful, or excite disgust as 
the opposite. A mere matter of sensibility, of feeling, this. 
Presently, however, we begin to notice, not the mere feehng 
of pleasure or aversion, but the character of the object that 
awakens it, w^e discriminate, we attribute to the object such 
and such qualities, take cognizance of it as possessing those 
qualities. This discriminating power, this judgment of the 
mind that the object possesses such properties, we call taste. 
As, in the sphere of sense, the feeling awakened affords the 
means of judging and distinguishing, as to the qualities of 
the object, so here. The beautiful awakens sensation — a 
vivid feeling of pleasure, delight, admiration; deformity 
awakens the reverse ; and this feeling enables us to judge of 
the object, as regards the property in question, viz., beauty 
or deformity, whether, and how far, as compared with other 
objects of the mind, it possesses this quality. In either 
case — the physical and the psychological — the process be- 
gins with sensation or feeling, but passes on at once into 
the domain of intellect, the sphere of understanding or 
judgment ; and while, in either case, the word taste may^ 
without impropriety, be used to denote the feeling or sus- 
ceptibility of impression which lies at the foundation of 
the intellectual process, it is more strictly appropriate to 
the faculty of discriminating the objects, and the qualities 
of objects, which awaken in us the given emotions. 

So far as the word itself can guide us, then, it would 
seem to be in the direction now indicated. 

Appeal to Consciousness. — Analogy, however, may mis- 
lead us. We must not base a doctrine or decide a question 
in psychology upon the meaning of a single term. Upon 



292 COGNIZANCE OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 

observation and consciousness of what actually passes in 
our own minds, in view of the beautiful, we must, after all, 
rely. Let us place ourselves, then, in the presence of the 
beautiful in nature or art, and observe the various mental 
phenomena that present themselves to our consciousness. 

I stand before a statue of Tiiorwaldsen or Canova. The 
spell and inspiration of high art are upon me. What passes 
now in my mind ? 

The first Element. — First of all, I am conscious of almost 
instant emotion in view of the object, an emotion of pleasure 
and delight. No sooner do my eyes rest upon the chiselled 
form that stands in faultless and wondrous beauty before 
me, than this emotion awakens. It springs into pla}^ as a 
fountain springs out of the earth by its own spontaneous 
energy, or, as the light plays on the mountain tops, and 
flushes their snowy summits, when the sun rises on the 
Alps. It is by no volition of mine that this takes place. 

A second Element. — Along with the emotion, there is 
another thing of which, also, I am conscious. Scarcely have 
my eyes taken in the form and proportions on which they 
rest with delight, scarcely has the first thrill of emotion, 
thus awakened, made itself known to the consciousness, 
when I find myself exclaiming, "How beautiful!'' The 
soul says it ; perhaps the lips utter it. If not an oral, it is, at 
least, a mental affirmation. The mind perceives, at a glance, 
the presence of beauty, recognizes its divinity, and pays 
homage at its shrine ; not now the blind homage of feeling, 
merely, but the clear-sighted perception of the intellect, the 
sure decision of the understanding affirming, with author- 
ity, ' That which thou perceivest and admirest is beautiful.' 
This is an act of judgment, based, however, on the pre- 
vious awakening of the sensibility. I know, because I feel. 

A third Element. — In addition to these, there may, or 
may not be, another phase of mental action. I may begin, 
presently, to observe, with a more careful eye, the work l)e- 
fore me, and form a critical estimate of it, scan its outline, 



COGKIZAKCE OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 293 

its several parts, its effect as a whole, ascertain its merits, 
and its defects as a work of art, study its design, its idea, 
and how well it expresses that idea, and fulfills that design. 
I eeek to know what it is in the piece that pleases me, and 
Avhy it pleases me. This may, or may not, take place. 
Whether it shall occur, or not, will depend on the state of 
the mind at the moment, the circumstances in which it is 
placed, its previous training and culture, its habits of 
thought. This, too, is an exercise of judgment, comparing, 
distinguishing, deciding ; a purely intellectual process. It is 
not so much a new element, as a distinct phase of that last 
named. It is the mind deciding and affirming now, not merely 
that the object is beautiful, but in what and loliy it is so. 

Uniformity of Eesults. — I change now the experiment. 
I repeat it. I place myself before other works, before 
works of other artists — works of the painter, the architect, 
the musician, the poet, the orator. Whatever is beautiful, 
in art or nature, I observe. I perceive, in all cases, the 
same results, the occurrence of essentially the same mental 
phenomena. I conclude that these effects are produced, 
not fortuitously, but according to the constitution of my 
nature ; that they are not specific instances, but general 
laws of mental action ; in other words, that the mind pos- 
sesses a susceptibility of being impressed in this manner by 
such objects, and also a faculty of judging and discrimina- 
ting as above described. To these tv/o elements, essen- 
tially, then, do the mental phenomena occasioned by the 
presence of the beautiful, reduce themselves. 

The Question. — Which, then, of these elements is it that 
answers to the idea of taste, as used to denote a power of 
the mind ? Is it the susceptibility of emotion in view of the 
beautiful, the power of feeling; or is it the faculty of judg- 
ing and discriminating ; or is It both combined ? Our 
definitions, as we have seen, include both; the word, itself, 
may denote either ; both are comprised in our analysis of 
the mental phenomena in view of the beautiful. 



294 COCiNIZANCE OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 

Not the first. — Is it the first ? I think not. Taste is not 
mere emotion, nor mere susccptibiUty of emotion. A child 
or a savage may be delicient in taste, yet they may be as 
deeply moved in view of the beautiful, in nature or art, as 
the man of cultivated mind; nay, their emotion may ex- 
ceed his. They may regard, with great delight and admi- 
ration, what he will view with entire indifference. So far 
from indicating a high degree of taste, the very suscepti- 
bility of emotion, in such cases, may be the sure indication 
of a want of taste. They are pleased with that which a 
cultivated and correct taste would condemn. The power 
of being moved is simply sensibility, and sensibility is not 
taste, however closely they may be related. 

Taste the intellectual Element. — Is taste, then, the power, 
of mental discrimination which enables me to say that such 
and such things are, or are not, beautiful, and which, in 
some cases, perhaps, enables me to decide why, or wherein 
they are so? Does it, in a word, denote the intellectual 
rather than the emotional element of the process ? I am 
inclined to thmk this the more correct vieAv. Susceptibility 
of emotion is, doubtless, concerned in tlie matter. It has to 
do with taste. It may be even the ground and foundation 
of its exercise, nay, of its existence. But it is not, itself, taste, 
and should not be included, therefore, in the definition. 

Reason for distinguishing the two. — As we distinguish, 
in philosophic il investigation, between an emotion and the 
intellectual perception that precedes and gives rise to it, or 
between the perception and the sensation on which it is 
founded, so I would distinguish taste, or the intellectual 
perception of the beautiful, from the sensation or feeling 
awakened in view of the object. The fact that both ele- 
ments exist, and enter into the series of mental phenomena 
in view of the beautiful, is no reason why tliey should both 
be designated by the same term, or included in tlie same 
definition, but, rather, it is a reason why they should be 
carefully distinguished. 



COGNIZANCE OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 295 

The precise uamre of this faculty may be more distinctly 
perceiv'ed, if we consider, more particularly, its relation to 
the judgment, and also to the sensiMlity. 

Taste, as related to Judgment. — According to the view 
now taken, taste is only a modification, or rather a particu- 
lar direction of that general power of the mind which we call 
judgment ; it is judgment exercised about the beautiful. It 
is the office of the judgment to form opinions and beliefs, to 
inform us of relations, to decide that things are thus and 
thus, that this is this, and that is that. As employed in 
different departments of thought, it appears under different 
forms, and is known under diverse names. As employed 
about the actual and sensible, we call it understanding; in 
the sphere of abstract truth it works under the cognomen 
of reason ; in the sphere of practical truth, the thing that is 
good and right to be done by me, it is known as conscience ; 
in the sphere of the ideal and the beautiful it is taste. In 
all these departments of mental activity it is exercised, em- 
ploys itself upon all these subjects, giving us opinion, belief, 
knowledge, as to them all. The judgment as thus exer- 
cised in relation to the beautiful, that is to say, the mind 
observing, comparing, discriminating, deciding, forming the 
opinion, or reaching it may be the positive knowledge that 
this thing is, or is not, beautiful — for this is simply what we 
mean by judgment in any particular instance — judgment, as 
thus exercised, is known by the name of taste. More strictly 
speaking, it is not so much the exercise of the judgment in 
this particular way in given instances, i\^i\iQ foundation or 
ground of that exercise, the discriminating faculty or 'power 
of the mind by virtue of which it thus operates. 

Judgment does not furnish the Ideas.— Does, then, the 
judgment, it may be asked, give us originally the ideas of 
the true, the beautiful, and the good ? This we do not 
affirm. Judgment is not the source of ideas, certainly not 
of those now mentioned. It does not originate them. 
Their origin and awakening in the human mind is, we 



^90 C G 2^ I Z A N C E OF T II JO BEAUTIFUL. 

rhould say, on this wise. The beautiful, the true, the good, 
exist as simple, absolute, eternal prineiples. Tliey arc in 
the divine mind. They are in the divine works. In a 
sense they are indei:>endcnt of Deity. He does not create 
them. He cannot reverse tlicm or change their nature. He 
works according to them. They are not created by, but 
only manifested in, what God does. We are created with 
a nature so formed and endowed as to be capable of recog- 
nizing these principles and being impressed by them. The 
consequence is, that no sooner do we open the eye of reason 
and intelligence upon that which lies around and passes he- 
fore us, in the world, than the idea of the true, the beauti- 
ful, the morally good, is awakened in the mind. TVe in- 
stinctively perceive and feel their presence in the objects 
presented to our notice. They are the product of our ra- 
tional intelligence, brought into contact, through sense, with 
the world in which we dwell. The idea of beauty or of the 
right, thus once awakened in the mind, when afterward ex- 
amples, or, it may be, violations, of these principles occur, 
the judgment is exercised in deciding that the cases pre- 
sented do or do not properly fall under the class thus desig- 
nated; and the judgment thus exercised in respect to the 
beautiful, we call taste, in respect to the right, conscience. 

Taste as now defined. — As now defined, taste is, as to its 
principle, Mc discriminating po2uer of the mind with respect 
to the beautiful or sublime in nature or art ; that certain 
state, qualit}^, or condition of the mental powers and the 
mental culture, the result partly of native difference and en- 
dowment, partly of education and habit, by virtue of which 
we are able to judge more or less correctly as to the beauty 
or deformity, the merit or demerit of whatever presents it- 
self in nature or art as an object of admiration, whether 
and how far it is in reality beautiful, and of its fitness to 
awaken in us the emotions that we experience in view 
thereof. \i we are able to observe, compare, discriminate, 
form opinions and conclusions well and correctly, on these 



COGiq-IZAKCE OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 297 

matters, our taste is good ; otherwise bad, Wliether it be 
the one or the other, will depend not entirely on native en- 
dowment, not altogether on the degree to which the judg- 
ment is cultivated and developed in respect to other mat- 
ters, but quite as much on the culture and training of the 
mind with respect, to the specific objects of taste, viz., the 
beauties of nature and art. Men of strong minds, good 
understanding, and sound judgment in other matters, are 
not necessarily men of good taste. Like every other faculty 
of the mind, taste requires cultivation. 

Taste and good Taste. — It is necessary to distinguish be- 
tween taste, and good taste. Many writers use the terms 
indifferently, as when we say such a one is a man of taste, 
meaning of good taste, or such a one has no taste whatever, 
meaning that he is a man of bad taste. Strictly speaking, 
the savage who rejoices in the disfigurement of his person 
by tattooing, paint, and feathers, is a man of taste, as really 
as the Broadway dandy, or the Parisian exquisite. He has 
his faculty of judging in such matters, and exercises it — ^his 
standard of judging, and comes up to it. He is a man of 
taste, but not of correct taste. He has his own notions, but 
they do not agree with ours. He violates all the rules and 
principles by which well-informed minds are guided in such 
matters. He shocks our notions of fitness and propriety, 
excites in us emotions of disgust, or of the ludicrous, and, 
on the whole, we vote him down as a man of no authority 
in such matters. 

As related to Sensibility. — Thus far we have spoken of 
taste only as related to the judgment. It is necessary to 
consider also its relation to the sensibility. Taste and sen- 
sibility are very often confounded. They are, in reality, 
quite distinct. Sensibility, so far as we are at present con- 
cerned with it, is the mind's capability of emotion in view of 
the beautiful or sublime. Taste is its capability of judging, 
in view of the same. Viewed as acts, rather than as states 
or powers of the mind, sensibility is the feeling awakened 



208 COGNIZANCE OF THE B E A U T I F U L . 

in view of a beautiful object ; taste is tlie judgment or 
opinion formed respecting it. In the case already sup- 
posed, I stand before a fine statue or painting. It moves 
me, attracts me, fills me with delight and admiration. In 
this, it is not directly and immediately my taste, but my 
sensibility, that is affected and brought into play. I begin 
to judge of the object before me as a work of art, to form 
an opinion respecting its merits and demerits ; and, in so 
doing, my taste is exercised. 

The two not always proportional. — Not only are tlie two 
principles distinct, but not always do they exist in equal 
proportion and development in the same mind. Persons 
of the liveliest sensibility are not always, perhaps not gener- 
ally, persons of the nicest taste. The child, the uneducated 
peasant, the negro, are as highly delighted with l^eautiful 
forms and beautiful colors as the philosopher, but could not 
tell you so well why they were moved, or what it was, in 
the object, that pleased them ; neither would they discrim- 
inate so well the truly beautiful from that Avhich is not 
worthy of admiration. If there may be sensibility without 
taste, so, on the other hand, a high degree of taste is not 
always accompanied with a corresponding degree of sensibil- 
ity. The practised connoisseur is not always the man who 
enjoys the most at sight of a fine picture. The skillful 
musician has much better taste in music than the child 
that listens, with mingled wonder and delight, to his play- 
ing; but we have only to glance at the countenance of 
each, to see at once which feels the most. 

Sensibility not inconsistent with Taste. — I should not, 
however, infer from this, that a high degree of sensibiHty 
is inconsistent with a high degree of taste. This was Mr. 
Stewart's opinion. The feeling, he would say, will be likely 
to interfere with the judgment, in such a case. Doubtless, 
where the feeling is highly wrought uj^on and excited, it 
may, for the time, interfere witli the cool and deliberate ex- 
ercise of the judgment. Yet. nevertheless, if sensibility be 



COGKIZAKCE OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 299 

wanting, there will not be likely to be much taste. If I feel 
no pleasure at sight of a beautiful landscape or painting, I 
shall not be likely to trouble myself much about its compar- 
ative merits or defects. It is useless, in such a case, to in- 
quire what pleases me, or wh}^ I am pleased, when, in truth, 
nothing pleases me. There is no motive for the exercise of 
judgment in such a case, neither is there an opportunity for 
its action. The very foundation for sucli an exercise is want- 
ing. A li vely sensibility is the basis of a correct taste, the 
ground on which it must rest, the spring and life of its ac- 
tion. The two are related somewhat as genius and learning, 
which are not always found in equal degree, yet are by no 
means inconsistent with each other. There maybe a high 
degree of mental strength and activit}^, without correspond- 
ing acquisitions ; yet there can hardly be learning without 
some degree of mental power and activity. There may be 
sensibility without much, taste, but hardly much taste with- 
out sensibility. Taste is, in a great measure, acquired, cul- 
tivated, an art; sensibility, a native endowment. It may 
be developed, strengthened, educated, but not acquired. 
Genius produces, sensibility admires, taste judges or de- 
cides. Their action is reciprocal. If taste corrects and 
restrains the too ready or too extravagant sensibility, the 
latter, on the other hand, furnishes the ground and data 
upon which, after all, taste must rely in its decisions. 

Cultivation of Taste. — We have investigated, Avith some 
care, as was proposed, the nature of that power of the mind 
which takes cognizance of the beautiful. On the cultiva- 
tion of this power, a- few words must be said in this connec- 
tion. Taste is an intellectual faculty, a perceptive power, 
a matter of judgment, and, as such, both admits and re- 
quires cultivation. No forms of mental activity depend 
more on education and exercise, for their full development, 
than that class to which we give the general name of judg- 
ment, and no form of judgment more than that which we 
call taste. The mind uncultivated, untrained, unused to 



300 (OGXIZANCE OF THE BKAUTIFUL. 

tlie nice perception of the beautiful, can no more judge cor- 
rectly, in matters of taste, than the mind unaccustomed to 
judge of the distance, magnitude, or chemical properties of 
bodies, can form correct decisions upon these subjects. It 
must be trained by art, and strengthened by exercise. It 
must be made ftimiliar with the laws, and conversant with 
the forms of beauty. It must be taught to observe and study 
the beautiful, in nature and in art, to discriminate, to com- 
pare, to judge. The works in literature and in art which hav6 
received the approbation of time, and the honorable verdict 
of mankind, as well as the objects in nature which have com- 
manded the admiration of the race, must become familiar, 
not by observation only, but by careful study. Thus may 
taste be cultivated. 

HISTORICAL SKETCH. 

View of Plato. — Among the ancients, Plato was, per- 
haps, the first to distinguish the idea of the beautiful from 
other kindred ideas, and to point out its affinity with the 
true and the good, thus recognizing in it something im- 
mutable and eternal. In making the good and the beauti- 
ful identical, however, he mistakes the true character and 
end of art. Previously to Plato, and even by him, art and 
the beautiful were treated only in connection with ethics 
and politics ; aesthetics, as a distinct department of science, 
was not known to the ancients. 

Of Aristotle. — Aristotle has not treated of the beautiful, 
but only of dramatic art. Poetry, he thinks, originates in 
the tendency to imitate, and the desire to know. Tragedy 
is the imitation of the better. Painting should represent, in 
like manner, not what ?X but what ought to he. In this 
sense, maybe understood his profound remark, \\\i\i j^oetry 
is more true than history. 

Plotinus and Augustine. — After Aristotle, Plot inns and 
'Atignsti?ira]om\ a]noni: tlio ancients, have trcjited of the 
beautiful. The work of Augustine is not extant. It is 




COGNIZANCE OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 301 

known that he made beauty consist in unity and fitness of 
parts, as in music. The treatise of Plotinns is regarded 
as at once beautiful and profound. Material beauty is, 
with him, only the expression or reflection of spiritual 
beauty. The soul alone, the mind, is beautiful, and in 
loving the beautiful, tlie soul loves its own image as there 
expressed. Hence, the soul must, itself, be beautiful, in 
order to comprehend and feel beauty. The tendency of 
this theoiy is to mysticism. 

Longinus and Q,uintilian. — Longinus, and Quintilian, 
treat of the sublime, only with reference to eloquence and 
oratory; so, also, Horace, of art, as having to do with 
poetry. 

Bacon. — Among the moderns, Bacon recognizes the fine 
arts as among the sciences, and poetry as one of the three 
chief branches of human knowledge, but nowhere, that I 
am avv-are, treats of the beautiful, distinctly, as such. 

School of Leibnitz. — It was the school of Leibnitz and 
Wolf in Germany that first made the beautiful a distinct 
science. Baumgarten, disciple of Wolf, first conceived this 
idea. Like Plato, however, he makes the beautiful too 
nearly identical with the good and with morals. 

School of Locke. — In England, the school of Loche have 
much to say of beauty. Shaftesbury and Hutcheson, 
while they do not clearly distinguish between the beautiful 
and the good, adopt the theory of unity in variety, as 
akeady explained. Hogarth falls into the same class, his 
idea of beauty being represented by the waving line. 
Burke does not distinguish suflSciently between the sub- 
lime and the terrible. 

French Encyclopedists. — In France, the Encyclopedists 
coincide, essentially, with the school of Locke, and treat of 
the beautiful, chiefly in its moral aspect. 

The later Germans. — In Grerraany, again, Winclcelman, 
an artist, and not a philosopher, seizing the spirit of the 
Greek art, ascribes, as Plato had done, the idea of beauty to 



302 C G N I Z A N C i: OF T II i: B E A U T I F U L . 

God, from wlioni it passes into sensible things, as his 
manifestations. 

In opposition to this ideal and divine aspect, Lessing 
takes a more practical view, regarding the beautiful from 
the stand-point of the real. Herder and Goethe contribute, 
also, much to the science of aesthetics. All these do little 
more than prepare the way for Kant, who goes more pro- 
foundly into the philosophy of the matter. He makes 
beauty a subjecfive affair, a play of the imaghiation. 

Schiller makes it the joint product of the reason and the 
sensibility, but still a subjective matter, as Kant. 

Schelling and Hegel. — Schelling develops the spiritual or 
ideal theory of beauty. Hegel carries out this theory and 
makes a complete science of it, classifies and analyzes the 
arts. His work is regarded as the first com2:)lete discussion 
of the philosophy of the fine arts. It is characterized by 
strength, clearness, depth, power of analysis, richness of 
imagination. 

Theory of Jouffroy. — Jouffroy, in France, among the 
later writers, has treated fully, and in an admirable man- 
ner, of the philosophy of the beautiful. His theory is 
derived from that of Hegel, with some modifications. It 
is essentially the theory last presented in the discussion of 
the subject in the preceding section, viz., the expression of 
the spiritual or invisible element under sensible forms. 
No writer is more worthy of study than Jouffroy. His 
work is clear, strong, and of admirable power of analysis. 

Cousin. — Among the eclectics. Cousin, in his treatise on 
the true, tlie beautiful, and the good, has many just ob- 
servations, with much beauty and philosophic clearness of 
expression. 

M'Dermot. — In English, beside the works already refer- 
red to, must be noticed the treatise of M'Dermot on Tast^, 
in which the nature and objects of taste are fully and well 
discussed. 



1 



CHAPTEH IV. 

IDEA AND COGNIZANCE OF THE RIGHT. 
§ I -IDEA OF RIGHT. 

The Idea of Right a Conception of the Mind. — Among 
the conceptions which constitute the furniture of the 
mind, there is one, which, in many respects, is unlike all 
others, while, at the same time, it is more important than 
all others; that is, the notion or idea of right 

TTniversally prevalent. — When we direct our attention 
to any given instance of the voluntary action of any intel- 
ligent rational being, we find ourselves not unfrequently 
pronouncing upon its character as a right or wrong act. 
Especially is this the case when the act contemplated is of 
a marked and unusual character. The question at once 
arises, is it right ? Or, it may be, without the consciousness 
of even a question respecting it, our decision follows in- 
stantly upon the mental apprehension of the act itself — this 
thing is right, that thing is wrong. Our decision may be 
correct or incorrect ; our perception of the real nature of 
the act may be clear or obscure ; it may make a stronger or 
weaker impression on the mind, according to our mental 
habits, the tone of our mental nature, and the degree to 
which we have cultivated the moral faculty. There may be 
minds so degraded, and natures so perverted, that the moral 
character of an act shall be quite mistaken, or quite over- 
looked in many cases; or, w^hen perceived, it shall make little 
impression on them. Even in such minds, however, the idea 
of right and wrong still finds a place, and the understand- 
ing applies it, though not perhaps always correctly, to par- 
ticular instances of human conduct. There is no reason to 



304 IDEA OF RIGHT. 

believe that any mind possessing ordinary endowments, 
that degree of reason and intelligence wliich nature usually 
bestows, IS destitute of this idea, or fails altogether to ap- 
ply it to its own acts, and those of others. 

The duestion and its different Answers. — But here an 
important question presents itself : Whence come these ideas 
and perceptions; their origin? How is it, why is it, that 
we pronounce an act right or wrong, when once fairly ap- 
prehended ? How come we by these notions? The fact is 
admitted ; the explanations vary. By one class of writers 
our ideas of this nature have been ascribed to education and 
fashion; by another, to legal restriction, human or divine. 
Others, again, viewing these ideas as the offspring of na- 
ture, have assigned them either to the operation of 'dsjjecial 
sense, given for this specific purpose, as the eye for vision ; 
or to the joint action of certain associated emotions ; while 
others regard them as originating in an exercise of judg- 
ment, and others still, as 7iatural intuitio7is of the mind, 
or reason exercised on subjects of a moral nature. 

Main Question. — The main question is, are these ideas 
natural, or artificial and acquired 9 If the latter, are they 
the result of education, or of legal restraint? If the for- 
mer, are they to be referred to the sensibilities, as the 
result of a special sense or of association, or to the intellecty 
as the result of the faculty of judgment or as intuitions 
of reason ? 

1. Education. — Come they from Education and Imita- 
tion? — So Locke, Paley, and others, have supposed. 
Locke was led to take this view, by tracing, as he did, all 
simple ideas, except those of our own mental operations, to 
sensation, as their source. This allows, of course, no place 
for the ideas of right and wrong, which, accordingly, he 
concluded, cannot be natural ideas, but must be the result 
of education. 

Objection to this View. —Now it is to be conceded that 
education and fashion are powerful instruments in the cnl- 



IDEA OF RIGHT. 305 

ture of the mind. Their influence is not to be overlooked 
in estimating the causes that shape and direct the opinions 
of men, and the tendencies of an age. But they do not 
account for the origin of any thing. This has been ably 
and clearly shown by Dugald Stewart, in answer to Locke; 
and it is a sufficient answer. Education and imitation both 
presuppose the existence of moral ideas and distinctions ; 
the very things to be accounted for. How came they who 
first taught these distinctions, and they who first set the 
example of making such distinctions, to he themselves in 
possession of these ideas ? Whence did they derive them ? 
Who taught them, and set them the example ? This is a 
question not answered by the theory now under considera- 
tion. It gives us, therefore, and can give us, no account 
of the origin of the ideas in question. 

2. Legal Enactment. — Do we then derive these ideas 
from legal restriction and enactment f So teach some able 
writers. Laws are made, human and divine, requiring 
us to do thus and thus, and forbidding such and such 
things, and hence we get our ideas originally of right and 
wrong. 

Presupposes Right. — If this be so, then, previous to all 
law, there could have been no such ideas, of course. But 
does not \diW presuppose the idea of right and wrong? Is 
it not built on that idea as its basis ? How, then, can it 
originate that on Avhich itself depends, and which it pre- 
supposes ? The first law ever promulgated must have been 
either a just or an unjust law, or else of no moral character. 
If the latter, how could a law which was neither just nor 
unjust, have suggested to the subjects of it any such ideas ? 
If the former, then these qualities, and the ideas of them, 
must have existed prior to the law itself; and whoever 
made the law and conferred on it its character, must have had 
already, in his own mind, the idea of the right and its op- 
posite. It is evident that we cannot, in this way, account 



306 IDEA OF RIGHT. 

for the origin of the ideas in question. Wc are no nearer 
the solution of the problem than l^et'oro. 

In opposition to the views now considered, we must re- 
gard the ideas in question, as, directly or indirectly, the 
work of nature, and the result of our constitution. The 
question still remains, however, in which of the several 
ways indicated, does this result take place ? 

3. Special Sense. — Shall we attribute these ideas to a 
special sense ? This is the view taken by Hutch eson and 
his followers. Ascribing, with Locke, all our simple ideas to 
sensation, but not content with Locke's theory of moral dis- 
tinctions as the result of education, he sought to account for 
them by enlarging the sphere of sensation, and introducing 
a new sense, wliose specific office is to take cognizance of 
such distinctions. The tendency of this theory is evident. 
While it derives the idea of right and its opposite from our 
natural constitution, and is, so far, jireferable to either of the 
preceding theories, still, in assigning them a place among 
the sensibilities, it seems to make morality a mere senUvie?if, 
a matter of feeling merely, an impression made on our sen- 
tient nature — a mere subjective affair— as color and taste are 
impressions made on our organs of sense, and not properly 
qualities of bodies. As these affections of the sense do not 
exist independently, but only relatively to us, so moral 
distinctions, according to this view, are merely subjective 
affections of oiir minds, and not independent realities. 

Hume and the Sophists. — Hume accedes to this general 
view, and carries it out to its legitimate results, making 
morality a mere relation between our nature and certain 
objects, and not an independent quality of actions. Virtue 
and vice, like color and taste, the bright and the dull, the 
sweet and the bitter, lie merely in our sensations. 

These skeptical views liad been advanced long previously 
by the Sophists, who taught that man is the measure of all 
things, that tilings are only what they seem to us. 

Ambiguity of the term Sense. — It is true, as Stewart has 



IDEA OF RIGHT. 307 

observed, that these yiews do not necessarily result from 
Hutcheson's theory, nor were they, probably, held by him ; 
but such IS tlie natural tendency of his doctrme. The term 
sGiise, as employed by him, is, in itself, ambiguous, and may 
be used to denote a oriental pey^ception ; but when we speak 
of a sense, we are understood to refer to that part of our 
constitution which, when affected from without, gives us 
certain sensations. Thus the sense of hearing, the sense of 
vision, the sense of taste, of smell, etc. It is in this way 
that Hutcheson seems to have employed the term, and his 
illustrations all point in this direction. He was unfortu- 
nate, to say the least, in his use of terms, and in his illus- 
trations ; unfortunate, also, in having such a disciple as 
Hume, to push his theory to its legitimate results. 

If, by a special sense, he meant only a direct perceptive 
power of the mind, then, doubtless, Hutcheson is right in 
recognizing such a faculty, and attributing to it the ideas 
under consideration. But that is not the proper meaning 
of the word sense, nor is that the signification attached to 
it by his followers. 

ITo Evidence of such a Faculty. — But if he means, by 
sense, what the word itself would indicate, some adaptation 
of the sensibilities to receive impressions from things with- 
out, analogous to that by which we are affected through the 
organs of sense, then, in the first place, it is not true that 
we have any such S2)ecial faculty. There is no evidence of 
it; nay, facts contradict it. There is no such imiformity of 
moral impression or sensation as ought to manifest itself 
on this supposition. Men's eyes and ears are much alike, in 
their activity, the Vv^orld over. That which is white, or red, 
to one, is not black to another, or green to a third ; that 
which is sweet to one, is not sour, or bitter, to another. At 
least, if such variations occur, they are the result only of 
some unnatural and unusual condition of the organs. But 
it is otherwise with the operation of the so-called special 
sense. While all men have probably some idea of right 



308 I J) K A O F Jl I G II T . 

and wrong, there is the greatest possible variety in its ap- 
plication to particular instances of conduct. What one 
approves as a virtue, another condemns as a crime. 

No Need of it. — Nor, secondly, have we any need to call 
in the aid of a special sense to give us ideas of this kind. 
It is not true, as Locke and Hutcheson believed, that all our 
ideas, except those of our own mental operations, or con- 
sciousness, are derived ultimately from sensation. We have 
ideas of the true and the beautiful, ideas of cause and effect, 
of geometrical and arithmetical relations, and various other 
ideas, which it would be difficult to trace to the senses ns 
their source; and which, e([ually with the ideas of right 
and wrong, would require, in that case, a special sense for 
their production. 

4. Association. — Shall we, then, adopt the view of that 
class of ethical writers who account for the origin of these 
ideas by tlie principle of association 9 Such men as Hartley, 
Mill, Mackintosh, and others of that stamp, are not lightly 
to be sot aside in the discussion of such a question. Their 
view is, that tlie moral perceptions arc the result of certain 
combined antecedent emotions, such as gratitude, pity, re- 
sentment, etc., which relate to the dispositions and actions 
of voluntary agents, and which very easily and naturally 
come to be transferred, from the agent himself, to the 
action in itself considered, or to the disposition which 
prompted it ; forming, when thus transferred and associated, 
what we call the moral feelings and perceptions. Just as 
avarice arises from the original desire, not of money, but of 
the things which money can j-) roc u re— which desire comes, 
eventually, to be transferred, from the objects themselves, 
to the means and instrument of procuring them — and, as 
Kym]»athy arises from the transfer to others of the feelings 
which, in like circumstances, agitate our own bosoms, so, 
in like manner, by the principle of association, the feelings 
which naf urally arise in view of the conduct of others, are 
transferred from the agent to the act, from the enemy or 



IDEA OF RIGHT. 309 

tlic benefactor, to the injury or the benefaction, which acts 
stand afterward, by themselves, as objects of approval or 
condemnation. Hence the disposition to approve all be- 
nevolent acts, and to condemn the opposite ; which dispo- 
sition, til us formed and transferred, is a part of conscience. 
So of other elementary emotions. 

Makes Conscience a mere Sentiment.— It will be per- 
ceived that this theory, which is indebted chiefly to Mack- 
intosh for its completeness, and scientific form, makes con- 
science wholly a matter of sentiment and feeling; standing, 
in this respect, on the same ground with the theory of a 
special sense, and liable, in part, to the same objections. 
Hence the name sentimental school, often employed to des- 
ignate, collectively, the adherents of each of these views. 
While the theory, now proposed, might seem then to offer 
a plausible account of the manner in which our moral sen- 
timents arise, it does not account for the origin of our ideas 
and perceptions of moral rectitude. Now the moral faculty 
is not a mere sentiment. There is an intellectual percep- 
tion of one thing as right, and another as wrong ; and the 
question now before us is. Whence comes that perception, 
and the idea on which it is based ? To resolve the whole 
matter into certain transferred and associated emotions, is 
to give up the inherent distinction of right and wrong as 
qualities of actions, and make virtue and vice creations of 
the sensibility, the play and product of the excited feelings. 
To admit the perception and idea of the right, and ascribe 
their origin to antecedent emotion, is, moreover, to reverse 
the natural order and law of psychological operation, which 
bases emotion on perception, and not perception on emo- 
tion. We do not first admire, love, hate, and then per- 
ceive, but the reverse. 

Further Objections. — The view now under consideration, 
while it seems to resolve the moral faculty into mere feel- 
ing, thus making morality wholly a relative affair, makes 
conscience, itself, an acquired, rather than a natural faculty, 



310 IDEA or RIGHT. 

a secondary process, a transformation of emotions, rather 
than itself an original principle. It does it, moreover, the 
farther injustice of deriving its origin from the purely self- 
ish principles of our nature. 1 receive a favor, or an in- 
jury ; hence I regard, with certain feelings of complacency, 
or the opposite, the man who has tiuis treated me. These 
feelings I come gradually to transfer to, and associate with, 
the act in itself considered, and this with other acts of the 
same nature ; and so, at last, I come to have a moral fac- 
ulty, and pronounce one thing right, and another wrong. 

At Variance with Facts. — This view is quite inadmis- 
sible ; at variance with facts, and the well-known laws of 
the human mind. The moral faculty is one of the earliest 
to develop itself. It appears in childhood, manifesting it- 
self, not as an acquired and secondary principle, the result 
of a complicated process of associated and transferred emo- 
tion, requiring time for its gradual formation and growth, 
but rather as an original instinctive principle of nature. 

Sympathy.— Adam Smith, in his " Theory of Moral Sen- 
timents," has proposed a view which falls properly under 
the general theory of association, and may be regarded as a 
modification of it. He attributes our moral i:)erceptions to 
the feeling of symimthy. To^adopt the feelings of another 
is to approve them. If those feelings are such as would 
naturally be awakened in us by the same objects, we ap- 
prove them as morally proper. Sympathy with the grati- 
tude of one who has received a favor, leads us to regard the 
benefaction as meritorious. Sympathy with the resentment 
of an injured man, leads us to regard the injurer as worthy 
of punishment, and so the sense of demerit originates; sym- 
pathy with the feelings of others respecting our own con- 
duct gives rise to self-api)roval and sense of duty. Kules 
of morality are merely a summary of these sentiments. 

This View not sustained by Cou8ciousn?ss. — Whatever 
credit may be due to tiiis ingenious writer, for calling atten- 
tion to a principle which had not been sufficiently taken into 



IDEA OF RIGHT. 311 

account by precediDg libilosopherd, we cannot but regard it 
as an insufficient explanation of tbe present case. In the 
first place, we are not conscious of the element of sympa- 
thy in the decisions and perceptions of tbe moral faculty. 
AVe look at a given action of right or wrong, and approve 
of it, or condemn it on that ground, because it is right or 
wrong, not because we sympathize with the feelings awak- 
ened by the act in the minds of others. If the process now 
supposed intervened between our knowledge of the act, and 
our judgment of its morality, we should know it and recog- 
nize it as a distinct element. 

No imperative Character. — Furthermore, sympathy, like 
other emotioDS, has no wiperative character, and, even if 
it might be supposed to suggest to the mind some idea of 
moral distinctions, cannot of itself furnish a foundation for 
those feelings of oiligation which accompany and charac- 
terize the decisions of the moral faculty. 

The Standard of Right. — But more than this, the view 
now taken makes the standard of right and wrong variable, 
and dependent on the feelings of men. We must know 
how others think and feel, how the thing affects them, be- 
fore we can know whether a given act is right or wrong, 
to be performed or avoided. And then, furthermore, our 
feelings must agree with theirs ; there must be sympathy 
and harmony of views and feelings, else the result will not 
follow. If any thing prevents us from knowing what are 
the feelings of others with respect to a given course of con- 
duct, or if for any reason we fail to sympathize with those 
feelings, we can have no conscience in the matter. As 
those feelings vary, so will our moral perceptions vary. 
We have no fixed standard. There is no place left for 
right, as such, and absolutely. If no sympathy, then no 
duty, no right, no morality. 

Result of the preceding Inquiries. — We have, as yet, 
found no satisfactory explanation of the origin of our moral 
ideas and perceptions. They seem not to be the result of 



312 IDEA OF KIUIIT. 

education and imitation, nor yet of legal enactment. They 
seem to be natural, rather than artificial and acquired. Yet 
we cannot trace them to the action of the sensitive part of 
our nature. They are not the product of a special sense, 
nor yet of the combined and associated action of certain 
natural emotions, much less of any one emotion, as sym- 
pathy. And yet they are a part of our nature. Place man 
where you will, surround him with what influences you 
will, you still find in him, to some extent at least, indica- 
tions of a moral nature ; a nature modified, indeed, by cir- 
cumstances, but never wholly obliterated. Evidently we 
must refer the ideas in question, then, to the intellectual, 
since they do not belong to the sensitive part of our nature. 

5. Judgment. — Are they then the product and oi)erati()n 
of the faculty of judgment Y But the judgment does not 
originate ideas. It compares, distributes, estimates, decides 
to what class and category a thing belongs, but creates 
nothing. I have in mind the idea of a triangle, a circle, 
etc. So soon as certain figures are presented to the eye, I 
refer them at once, by an act of judgment, to the class to 
which they belong. I affirm that to be a triangle, this, a 
circle, etc. ; the judgment does this. But judgment does 
not furnish my mind with the primary idea of a circle, etc. 
It deals with this idea already in the mind. So in our judg- 
ment of the beauty and deformity of objects. The percep- 
tion that a landscape or painting is beautiful, is, in one 
sense, an act of judgment ; but it is an act which presup- 
poses the idea of the beautiful already in the mind that so 
judges. So also of moral distinctitms. Whence comes the 
idea of right and wrong which lies at the foundation of 
every particular judgment as to the moral character of 
actions ? This is the question before us, still unanswered; 
and to this there remains but one reply. 

(j. These Ideas intuitive.— The ideas in question are in- 
iuifive ; suggestions or ])erce}>li()n,s of reason. The view 
now proposed rimy be thu^ stated : U is the office of reason 



IDEA OF RIGHT. 313 

to discern the right and the wrong, as Avell as the true and 
the false, the beautiful and the reverse. Kegarded subject- 
ively, as conceptions of the human mind, right and wrong, 
as well as beauty and its opposite, truth and its opposite, are 
simple ideas, incapable of analysis or definition; intuitions 
of reason. Eegarded as objective, right and wrong are 
realities, qualities absolute, and inherent in the nature of 
things, not fictitious, not the play of human fancy or hu- 
man feeling, not relative merely to the human mind, but 
independent, essential, universal, absolute. As such, rea- 
son recognizes their existence. Judgment decides that such 
and such actions do possess the one or the other of these 
qualities ; are right or wrong actions. There follows the 
sense of obligation to do or not to do, and the conscious- 
ness of merit or demerit as we comply, or fail to comply, 
with the same. In view of these perceptions emotions arise, 
but only as based upon them. The emotions do not, as the 
sentimental school afi&rm, originate the idea, the percep- 
tion ; but the idea, the perception, gives rise to the emo- 
tion. We are so constituted as to feel certain emotions in 
view of the moral quality of actions, but the idea and per- 
ception of that moral quality must 'precede^ and it is the 
office of reason to produce this. 

First Truths. — There are certain simple ideas which must 
be regarded as first truths, or first principles, of the human 
understanding, essential to its operations, ideas universal, 
absolute, necessary. Such are the ideas of personal exist- 
ence,and identity, of time and space, as conditions of mate- 
rial existence ; of number, cause, and mathematical rela- 
tion. Into this class fall the ideas of the true, the beautiful, 
the right, and their opposites. The fundamental maxims 
of reasoning and morals find here their place. 

How awakened. — These are, in a sense, intuitive percep- 
tions ; not strictly innate, yet connate ; the foundation for 
them being laid in our nature and constitution. So soon as 
the mind reaches a certain stage of development they pre- 
14 



314 COGNITION OF RIGHT. 

sent themselves. Circumstcinces may promote or retard 
their appearance. They depend on opportunity to furnish 
the occasion of their springing up, yet they are, neverthe- 
less, the natural, spontaneous development of the human 
soul, as really a part of our nature as are any of our in- 
stinctive impulses, or our mental attributes. They are a 
part of that native intelligence with which we are endowed 
by the author of our being. These intuitions of ours, are 
not themselves the foundation of light and wrong; they 
do not make one thing right and another wrong ; but they 
are simply the reason why we so regard them. Such we 
believe to be the true account of the origin of our moral 
perceptions. 

§ II.-COGNIZANCE OF THE RIGHT. 

The Cognition distinguished from the Idea of Right. — 
Having, in the preceding section, discussed the idea of the 
right, in itself considered, as a conception of the mind, we 
proceed now to consider tlie action of the mind as cognizant 
of right. The theme is one of no little difficulty, but, at 
the same time, of highest importance. 

Existence of this Power. — After what has been already 
said, it is hardly necessary to raise the preliminary inquiry, 
as to the existence of a moral faculty in man. That we do 
possess the power of making moral distinctions, that we do 
discriminate befeween the right and the wrong in human 
conduct, is an obvious fact in the history and psychology of 
the race. Consciousness, observation, the form of language, 
the literature of the world, the usages of society, all attest 
and confirm tliis truth. "We are conscious of the operation 
of this principle in ourselves, whenever we contemplate our 
own conduct, or that of others. We find ourselves, involun- 
tarily, and as by instinct, pronouncing this act to be right ; 
that, wrong. We recognize the obligation to do, or to have 
done, otherwise. We ai)prove, or condemn. We are sus- 



COGNITION OP RIGHT. 315 

tained by the calm sense of that self -approval, or cast down 
by tlie fearful strength and bitterness of that remorse. And 
what we find in ourselves, we observe, also, in others. In 
like circumstances, they recognize the same distinctions, 
and exhibit the same emotions. At the story or the sight 
of some flagrant injustice and wrong, the child and the 
savage are not less indignant than the philosopher. Nor 
is this a matter peculiar to one age or people. The lan- 
guages and the literature of the world indicate, that, at all 
times, and among all nations, the distinction between right 
and wrong has been recognized and felt. The rb diKaiov 
and TO KaXov of the Greeks, the honestum and the piilchrum 
of the Latins, are specimens of a class of words, to be found 
in all languages, the proj^er use and significance of which is 
to express the distinctions in question. 

Since, then, we do unquestionably recognize moral dis- 
tinctions, it is clear that we have a moral faculty. 

Questions which present themselves. — Without further 
consideration of this point, we pass at once to the investiga- 
tion of the subject itself. Our inquiries relate principally 
to the nature and authority of this faculty. On these points, 
it is hardly necessary to say, great difference of opinion has 
existed among philosophers and theologians, and grave 
questions have arisen. Wliat is this faculty as exercised ; 
a judgment, a process of reasoning, or an emotion ? Does 
it belong to the rational or sensitive part of our nature : to 
the domain of intellect, or of feeling, or both ? What is the 
value and correctness of our moral perceptions, and espe- 
cially of that verdict of approbation or censure, which we 
pass upon ourselves and others, according as the conduct 
conforms to, or violates, recognized obligation ? Such are 
some of the questions which have arisen respecting the na- 
ture and authority of conscience. 

I. The Nature of Conscience. — What is it ? A matter of 
intellect, or oi feeling ; ajtidgment, or an emotion? 

A careful analysis of the phenomena of conscience, with a 



31G COGNITION or KKJHT. 

view to determine the several elements, or mental processes, 
that constitute its operation, may aid us in the solution of 
this question. 

ANALYSIS OF AN ACT OF CONSCIENCE. 

Cognition of Right. — Whenever the conduct of intelli- 
gent and rational beings is made the subject of contempla- 
tion, whether the act thus contemplated be our own or 
another's, and whether it be an act already performed, or 
only proposed, we are cognizant of certain ideas awakened 
in the mind, and of certain impressions made upon it. 
First of all, the act contemplated strikes us as rigid or 
wrong. This involves a double element, an idea, and a per- 
ception OY judgment. The idea of right and its opposite are, 
in the mind, simple ideas, and, therefore, indefinable. In 
the act contemplated, we recognize the one or the other of 
these simple elements, and pronounce it. accordingly, a 
right or wrong act. This is simply a judgment, a percep- 
tion, an exercise of the understanding. 

Of Obligation. — No sooner is this idea, this cognition, of 
the rightness or wrongness of the given act, fairly enter- 
tained by the mind, than another idea, another cognition, 
presents itself, given along with the former, and inseparable 
from it, viz., that of obligation to do, or not to do, the given 
act : the ought, and the ought not — also simple ideas, and 
indefinable. This applies equally to the future and to the 
past, to ourselves and to others : I ought to do this thing. 
I ought to have done it yesterday. He ought, or ought not 
to do, or to have done it. This, like the former, is an intel- 
lectual act, a perception or cognition of a truth, of a reality, 
for which we have the same voucher as for any other reality 
or apprehended fact, viz., the reliability of our mental facul- 
ties in general, and the correctness of their operation in the 
specific instance. It is a conviction of the mind insepara- 
ble from the perce})tion of right. Given, a clear {percep- 
tion of the one, and we cannot escape the other. 



C0G2s^ITI0N OF RIGHT. 317 

Of Merit and Demerit. — There follows a third element, 
logically distinct, but chronologically inseparable, from the 
preceding : the cognition of merit or demerit in connection 
with the deed, of good or ill desert, and the consequent ap- 
proval or disapproval of the deed and the doer. No sooner 
do we perceive^ an action to be right or wrong, and to in- 
volve, therefore, an obligation on the part of the doer, than 
there arises, also, in the mind, the idea of merit or demerit, 
in connection with the doing ; we regard the agent as deserv- 
ing of praise or blame, and in our own minds do approve or 
condemn him and his course, accordingly. This approval 
of ourselves and others, according to the apprehended de- 
sert of the act and the actor, constitutes a process of trial, 
an inner tribunal, at whose bar are constantly arraigned the 
deeds of men, and whose verdict it is no easy matter to set 
aside. This mental approval may be regarded by some as 
a matter of feeling, rather than an intellectual act. We 
speak of feelings of approval and of condemnation. To 
approve and condemn, however, are, properly, acts of the 
judgment. The feelings consequent upon such approval 
or disapproval are usually of such a nature, and of such 
strength, as to attract the principal attention of the mind 
to themselves, and, hence, we naturally come to think and 
speak of the whole process as a matter of feehng. Strictly 
^dewed, it is an intellectual perception, an exercise of judg- 
ment, giving sentence that the contemplated act is, or is 
not, meritorious, and awarding praise or blame accordingly. 

This completes the process. I can discover nothing in 
the operation of my mind, in view of moral action, which 
does not resolve itself into some one of these elements. 

These Elements intellectual. — Viewed in themselves, these 
are, strictly, intellectual operations ; the recognition of the 
right, the recognition of obligation, the perception of good 
or ill desert, are all, properly, acts of the intellect. Each of 
these cognitive acts, however, involves a correspo7iding action 
of the sensibilities. The perception of the right awakens, in 



318 COGNITION OF II I G U T . 

the pure and virtuous mind, feelings of pleasure, admiration, 
love. The idea of obligation becomes, in its turn, through 
the awakened sensibilities, an impulse and motive to action. 
The recognition of good or ill desert awakens feehngs of 
esteem and complacency, or the reverse ; fills the soul with 
sweet peace, or stings it with sharp remorse. All these things 
must be recognized and included by the psychologist among 
the phenomena of conscience. These emotions, however, 
are based on, and grow out of, the intellectual acts already 
named, and are to be viewed as an incidental and subordi- 
nate, though by no means unimportant, part of the whole 
process. When we speak of conscience, or the moral facul- 
ty, we speak of a power, a faculty, and not merely a feeling 
or susceptibility of being affected. It is a cognitive power, 
having to do with realities, recognizing real distinctions, 
and not merely a passive jiUiy of the sensibilities. It is sim- 
ply the mind's power of recognizing a certain class of truths 
and relations. As such, we claim for it a place among the 
strictly cognitive powers of the mind, among the faculties 
that have to do with the perception of truth and reality. 

Importance of this Position. — This is a point of some 
impoi'tance. If, with certain writers, we make the moral 
faculty a matter of mere feeling, overlooking the intellectual 
perceptions on which this feeling is based, we overlook and 
leave out of the account, the chief elements of the process. 
The moral faculty is no longer a cognitive power, no longer, 
in truth, a faculty. The distinctions which it seems to re- 
cognize are merely subjective; impressions, feelings, to 
which there may, or may not, be a corresponding reality. 
We have at least no evidence of any such reality. 8ucli 
a view subtnicts the very foundation of morals. Our feel- 
ings vary ; but right and wrong do not vary with our feel- 
ings. They are objective realities, and not subjective phe- 
nomena. As such, the miud, by virtue of the natural powers 
with which it is endowed by the Creator, recognizes them. 
The power by which it gives this, we call the moral faculty ; 



COGIS^ITIOK OF EIGHT. 319 

just as we call its power to take cognizance of another class 
of truths and relations, viz., the beautiful, its CBsthetic faculty. 
In view of these truths and relations, as thus perceived, 
certain feelings are, in either case, awakened, and these 
emotions may, with propriety, be regarded as pertaining to, 
and a part of, the phenomena of conscience, and of taste ; 
the full discussion of either of these faculties will include 
the action of the sensibilities ; but in neither case will a 
true psychology resolve the faculty into the feeling. The 
mathematician experiences a certain feeling of delight in 
perceiving the relation of lines and angles, but the power 
of perceiving that relation, the faculty by which the mind 
takes cognizance of such truth, is not to be resolved into 
the feeling that results from it. 

Result of Analysis. — As the result of our analysis, we 
obtain the following elements as involved in, and con- 
stituting, an operation of the moral faculty : 

(1.) The mental perception that a given act is right or 
wrong. 

(2.) The perception of obligation with respect to the 
same, as right or wrong. 

(3.) The perception of merit or demerit, and the conse- 
quent approbation or censure of the agent, as doing the 
right or the wrong thus perceived. 

(4.) Accompanying these intellectual perceptions, and 
based upon them, certain corresponding emotions, varying 
in intensity according to the clearness of the mental per- 
ceptions, and the purity of the moral nature. 

II. Authority of Conscience. — Thus far we have con- 
sidered the natnre of conscience. The question arises now 
as to its antliority — the reliableness of its decisions. 

If conscience correctly discerns the right and the wrong, 
and the consequent obligation, it will be likely to judge 
correctly as to the deserts of the doer. If it mistake these 
points, it may approve what is not worthy of approval, and 
condemn what is good. 



320 COGNITION or K 1 G H T . 

What Evidence of Correctness. — How are we to know, 
then, whether conscience judgerf right? What vouclier 
have we for its correctness ? How far is it to be trusted 
in its perceptions and decisions? Perliaps we are so con- 
stituted, it may be said, as invariably to jndge that to be 
riglit which is wrong, and the reverse, and so to approve 
Avhere we should condemn. True, we reply, this may be 
so. It may be that I am so constituted, that two and two 
shall seem to be four, when in reality they are five ; and 
that the three angles of a triangle shall seem to be equal to 
two right angles, when in reality they are equal to three. 
This may be so. Still it is a presumption in favor of the 
correctness of all our natural perceptions, that they are the 
operation of original principles of our constitution. It is 
not probable, to say the least, that we are so constituted by 
the great Author of our being, as to be habitually deceived. 
It may be that the organs of vision and hearing are abso- 
lutely false; that the things which we see, and hear, and feel, 
through the medium of the senses, have no correspondence 
to our supposed perceptions. But this is not a probable sup- 
position. He who denies the validity of the natural facul- 
ties, has the burden of proof; and proof is of course impos- 
sible ; for the simple reason, that, in order to prove them 
false, you must make use of these very faculties ; and if 
their testimony is not reliable in the one case, certainly it 
is not in the other. We must then take their veracity for 
granted ; and we have the light to do so. And so of our 
moral nature. It comes from the Autlior of our being, and 
if it is uniformly and originally wrong, then he is wrong. 
It is an error, which, in tlie nature of the case, can ne\ er bo 
detected or corrected. We cannot get beyond our constitu- 
tion, back of our natural endowments, to judge, li priori, 
and from an external position, whether they are correct or 
not. Right and wrong are not, indeed, the creations of 
the divine will; but the faculties by which we perceive and 



COGNITIOK OF RIGHT. 321 

approve the right, and condemn, the wrong, arc from him ; 
and we must presume upon their general correctness. 

Not infallible. — It does not follow from this, however, 
nor do we affirm, that conscience is infallible, that she 
never errs. It does not follow that our moral perceptions 
and judgments are invariably correct, because they spring 
from our native constitution. This is not so. There is 
not one of the faculties of the human mind that is not 
liable to err. Not one of its activities is infallible. The 
reasoning power sometimes errs; the judgment errs; the 
memory errs. The moral faculty is on the same footing, 
in this respect, with any and all other faculties. 

Its Value not thus destroyed. — But of what use, it will 
be said, is a moral faculty, on which, after all, we cannot 
rely ? Of what use, we reply, is any mental faculty, that 
is not absolutely and universally correct ? Of what use is 
a memory or a judgment, that sometimes errs. We do not 
wholly distrust these faculties, or cast them aside as worth- 
less. A time-keeper may be of great value, thougli not ab- 
solutely perfect. Its authorship and original construction 
may be a strong presumption in favor of its general cor- 
rectness ; nevertheless its bands may have been accident- 
ally set to the wrong hour of the day. 

Actual Occurrence of such Cases.— This is a spectacle 
that not unfrequently presents itself in the moral world — 
a man with his conscience pointing to the wrong hour ; a 
strictly conscientious man, fully and firmly persuaded that 
he is right, yet by no means agreeing with the general con- 
victions of mankind ; an hour or two before, or, it may be, 
as much behind the age. Such men are the hardest of all 
mortals to be set right, for the simple reason, that they are 
conscientious. " Here is my watch ; it points to such an 
hour ; and my watch is from the very best maker. I cannot 
be mistaken ? " And yet he is mistaken, and egregiously so. 
The truth is, conscience is no more infallible than any other 
mental faculty. It is simply, as we have seen, a power of 



322 COGNITION 01- RIGHT. 

perceiving and judging, and its operations, like all other 
perceptions and judgments, are liable to error. 

Diversity of Moral Judgment. — And tliis which we have 
just said, goes far to account for the great diversity that 
has long been known to exist in the moral judgments and. 
opinions of n>en. It has often been urged, and with great 
force, against the supposed existence of a moral faculty in 
man, as a part of his original nature, that men think and 
act so diiferently with respect to these matters. Nature, it 
is said, ought to act uniformly; thus eyes and ears do not 
give essentially conflicting testimon}^, at different times, 
and in different countries, with respect to the same objects. 
Certain colors are universally pleasing, and certam sounds 
disagreeable. But not so, it is said, with respect to the 
moral judgments of men. What one approves, another 
condemns. If these distinctions are universal, absolute, 
essential ; and if the power of perceiving them is inherent 
in our nature, men ought to agree in their perception of 
them. Yet you will find nothing approved by one age and 
people, which is not condemned by some other; nay, the 
very crimes of one age and nation, are the religious acts of 
another. If the perception of right and wrong is intuitive, 
how happens this diversity ? 

This Diversity accounted for. — To wiiich I reply, the 
thing has been already accounted for. Our ideas of right 
and wrong, it was stated, in discussing their origin, depend 
on circumstances for their time and degree of development. 
They are not irrespective of opportunity. Education, habits, 
laws, customs, while they do not originate, still have much 
to do with the development and modificati(m of these ideas. 
They may be by these influences aided or retarded in their 
growth, or even quite misdirected, just j's a tree may, by 
unfavorable influences, be hindered and thwarted in its 
growth, be made to turn and twist, and put forth abnormal 
and monstrous developments. Yet nature works there, 
nevertheless, and in spite of all such obstacles, and unfavor- 



COGNITION OF RIGHT. 323 

able circumstances, seeks to put forth, according to her 
laws, her perfect and finished work. All that we contend 
is, that nature, under favorable circumstances, develops in 
the human mind, the idea of moral distinctions, while, at 
the same time, men may differ much in their estimate of 
what is right, and what is wrong^ according to the circum- 
stances and influences surrounding them. To apply the 
distinction of right and wrong to particular cases, and de- 
cide as to the morality of given actions, is an office of judg- 
ment, and the judgment may err in this, as in any other of 
its operations. It may be biassed by unfavorable influences, 
by wrong education, wrong habits, and the like. 

Analogy of other Faculties.— The same is true, substan- 
tially, of all other natural faculties and their operations. 
They depend on circumstances for the degree of their de- 
velopment, and the mode of their action. Hence they are 
liable to great diversity and frequent error. Perception 
misleads us as to sensible objects, not seldom ; even in 
their mathematical reasonings, men do not always agree. 
There is the greatest possible diversity among men, as to 
the retentiveness of the memory, and as to the extent and 
power of the reasoning faculties. The savage that thinks 
it no wrong to scalp his enemy, or even to roast and eat 
him, is utterly unable to count twenty upon his fingers ; 
while the philosopher, who recognizes the duty of loving 
his neighbor as himself, calculates, with precision, the 
motions of the heavenly bodies, and predicts their place in 
the heaven, for ages to come. Shall we conclude, because 
of this diversity, that these several faculties are not parts 
of our nature ? 

General Uniformity.— We are by no means disposed to 
admit, however, that the diversity in men's moral judgments 
is so great, as might, at first, appear. There is, on the con- 
trary, a general uniformity. As to the great essential prin- 
ciples of morals, men, after all, do judge much alike, in 
different ages and different countries. In details, they differ; 



324 COGNITION OF RIGHT. 

in gciioral principles, they iigrce. In the application of the 
rules of morality to particular actions, they diller widely, 
according to circumstances; in tlie recognition of the right 
and the wrong, as distinctive principles, and of obligation 
to do the right as known, and avoid the wrong as known, 
in this they agree. It must be remembered, moreover, that 
men do not always act according to their own ideas of 
right. From the general neglect of virtue, in any age or 
community, and the prevalence of great and revolting 
crimes, we cannot safely infer the absence, or even the per- 
version, of the moral faculty. 

Precisely in what the Diversity consists. — It is import- 
ant to bear in mind, throughout this discussion, the dis- 
tinction between the idea of right, in itself considered, and 
i\\Q perception oi a given act as right; the one a simple 
conception, the other an act of judgment; the one an idea 
derived from the very constitution of the mind, connate, 
if not innate, the other an application of that idea, by the 
understanding, to particular instances of conduct. The 
former, the idea of moral distinctions, may be universal, 
necessary, absolute, unerring; tlie latter, the application 
of the idea to particular instances, and the decision that 
such and such acts are, or are not, right, maybe altogether 
an incorrect and mistaken judgment. "Now it is precisely 
at this point that the diversity in the moral judgments of 
mankind makes its appearance. In recognizing the dis- 
tinction of right and wrong, they agree; in the application 
of the same to particular instances in deciding what is 
right and what is wrong — a simple act of the judgment, 
an exercise of the understanding, as we have seen — in this 
it is that they differ. And the difference is no greater, 
and no more inexplicable, with respect to this, than in any 
other class of judgments. 

Conscience not always a safe Guide. - T have admitted 
uiat conscience is not infallible. Is it, then, a safe guide? 
Are we. in all cases, to follow its decisions ? Since liable to 



COGJSriTlOK OF RIGHT. 325 

err, it caunot be, in itself, I reply, in all cases, a safe guide. 
We cannot conclude, with certainty, that a given course is 
right, simply because conscience approves it. This does 
not, of necessity, follow. The decision that a given act is 
right, or not, is simply a matter of judgment ; and the 
judgment may, or may not, be correct. That depends on 
circumstances, on education partly, on the light we have, 
be it more or less. Conscientious men are not always in 
the right. We may do wrong conscientiously, Saul of 
Tarsus was a conscientious persecutor, and verily thought 
he was doing God service. No doubt, many of the most 
intolerant and relentless bigots have been equally conscien- 
tious, and equally mistaken. Such men are all the more 
dangerous, because doing what they believe to be right. 

It is, nevertheless, to be followed. — What, then, are we 
to do ? Shall we follow a guide thus liable to err? Yes, 
I reply, follow conscience ; but see that it be a right and 
well-informed conscience, forming its judgments, not from 
impulse, passion, prejudice, the bias of habit, or of unre- 
flecting custom, but from the clearest light of reason, and 
especially of the divine word. We are responsible for the 
judgments we form in morals, as much as for any class of 
our judgments ; responsible, in other words, for the sort of 
conscience we have. Saul's mistake lay, not in acting ac- 
cording to his conscientious convictions of duty, but in not 
having a more enlightened conscience. He should have 
formed a more careful judgment ; have inquired more dili- 
gently after the right way. To say, however, that a man 
ought not to do what conscience approves, is to say that 
he ought not to do what he sincerely believes to be right. 
This would be a very strange rule in morals. 

Conscience not exclusively intellectual. — I have dis- 
cussed, as I proposed, the nature and autliority of con- 
science. In this discussion I have treated of the moral 
faculty as an intellectual, rather than an emotional power. 
I would not be understood, however, as implying that con- 



326 COGNITION OF RIGHT. 

science has not also an emotional character. Every intel- 
lectual act, and faculty of action, partakes more or less of 
this character, is accompanied by feeling, and these feel- 
ings are in some decree peculiar, it may be, to the particu- 
lar faculty or act of mind to which they relate. The exer- 
cise of imagination involves some degree of feeling, either 
pleasurable or painful, and that often in a high degree ; so 
also the sesthetic faculty. It is peculiarly so with the ex- 
ercise of the moral faculty. As already stated, in our an- 
alysis of an act of conscience, it is impossible to view our 
past conduct as right or wrong, and to approve or condemn 
ourselves accordingly, without emotion ; and these emo- 
tions will vary in intensity, according to the clearness and 
force of our intellectual conception of the merit or demerit 
of our conduct. 

These feelings constitute an important part of the phe- 
nomena of moral action, and consequently of psychology ; 
as they belong, however, to the department of sensibility ^ 
rather than of intellect, their further discussion is not here 
in place. They will be considered in connection with other 
emotions in the subsequent division of the work. 



INTELLECTUAL FACULTIES, 



■^St> 



SUPPLEMENTARY TOPICS. 



SUPPLEMENTARY TOPICS. 



CHAPTEH h 

INSTINCT.— THE INTELLIGENCE OF THE BRUTE AS 
DISTINGUISHED FROM THAT OF MAN. 

Closely connected with the philosophy of human intel- 
ligence is the science of instinct, or the intelligence of the 
brute — a subject of interest not merely in its relations to 
psychology, but to some other sciences, as natural history, 
and theology. 

We work at a Disadvantage in such Inquiries. — With 
regard to this matter, it must be confessed, at the outset, 
that we work, in some respects, in the dark, in our inquiries 
and speculations concerning it. It lies wholly removed 
from the sphere of consciousness. AYe can only observe, 
compare, and infer, and our conclusions thus derived must 
be liable, after all, to error. The operations of our own 
minds we know by the clearest and surest of all sources of 
knowledge, viz., our own consciousness ; the operation of 
brute intelligence must ever be in great measure unknown 
and a mystery to us. How far the two resemble each other, 
and how far they differ, it is not easy to determine, not 
easy to draw the dividing line, and say where brute intelli- 
gence stops and human intelligence begins. 

Method proposed. — Let us first define instinct, the term 
usually applied to denote brute intelligence, and ascertain, 
if possible, what are its peculiar characteristics; we may 
then be able to determine wherein it differs from intelli- 
gence in man. 



330 INSTINCT. 

Definition. — I understand, by instinct, a law of action, 
governing and directing the movement of sentient beings 
— distinct, on the one hand, from the mere blind forces of 
matter, as attraction, etc., and from reason on the other; 
a law working to a given end by impulse, yet blindly — the 
subject not knowing why he thus works ; a law innate, in- 
herent in the constitution of the animal, not acquired but 
transmitted, the origin of which is to be found in the in- 
telligent author of the universe. These I take to be the 
principal characteristics of that which we term instinct. 

Instinct a Law. — It is a law of action . In obedience to 
it the bee constructs her comb, and the ant her chambers, 
and the bird her nest ; and in obedience to it, the animal, 
of whatever species, seeks that particular kind of food 
which is intended and provided for it. These are merely 
instances of the operation of that law. The uniformity 
and universality which characterize the operations of tliis 
principle, show it to be a law of action, and not a merely 
casual occurrence. 

"Works by Impulse. — It is a law loorlcing hy impulse^ not 
mechanical or automatic, on the one hand, nor yet rational 
on the other. The imi^elling or motive force, in the case 
supposed, is not that of a weight acting upon machiner}', or 
any like mechanical principle, nor yet the reflex action of a 
nerve when irritated, or the spasmodic action of a muscle. 
It is not analogous to the influence of gravitation on the 
purely passive forms of matter. Nor yet is it that higher 
principle which we term reason in man. The bird constructs 
her nest as she does, and the bee her cell, in obedience to 
some blind yet powerful and \\wim\\i\^hnpi(he of her nature, 
guiding and directing her movements, prompting to action, 
and to this specific form of action, with a restless yearning, 
unsatisfied until the end is accomplished. Yet the creature 
does not herself understand the law by which she works. 
The bee does not know that she constructs her comb at that 
precise angle which will afford the greatest cont-ent in the 



INSTIi^^CT. 331 

least space, does not know why she constructs it at that 
precise angle, could give no reason for her procedure, even 
were she capable of understanding our question. It is not 
with her a matter of reflection, nor of reason, at all, but 
merely of blind, unthinking, yet unerring impulse. 

Is innate. — This law is innate, inherent in the constitu- 
tion of the animal, not acquired. It is not the result of 
education. The bird does not learn to build her nest, nor 
the bee her comb, nor the ant her subterranean chambers by 
observing how the parent works and builds. Eemoved from 
all opportunities of observation or instruction, the untaught 
animal still performs its mission, constructs its nest or cell, 
and does it as perfectly in solitude as among its fellows, as 
perfectly on the first attempt as ever after. Whatever intel- 
ligence there is involved in these labors and constructions, 
and certainly the very highest intelUgence would seem, in 
many instances, to be concerned in them, is an intelligence 
transmitted, and not acquired, the origin of which is to be 
sought, ultimately, not in the creature itself, but in the Au- 
thor of all intelligence, the Creator of the universe. The 
intelligence is that not of the creature, but of the Creator. 

Manifests itself irrespective of Circumstances. — It is to 
be further observed, with respect to the principle under 
consideration, that it often manifests its peculiar tendencies 
prior to the development of the appropriate organs. The 
young calf butts with its head before its horns are grown. 
The instinctive impulse manifests itself, also, under cir- 
cumstances which render its action no longer needful. The 
beaver caught and confined in a room, constructs its dam, 
as aforetime, with whatsoever materials it can command, 
although, in its present circumstances, such a structure is 
of no possible use. These facts evidently indicate the 
presence and action of an impulse working blindly, with- 
out reflection, without reason, without intelligence, on the 
part of the animal. 

I:idications of Contrivance, — On the other hand, there 



332 INSTINCT. 

are instances of bnite action whicli seem to indicate con- 
trivance and adaptation to circumstances. The bee com- 
pelled to construct her comb in an unusual and unsafe po- 
sition, steadies it by constructing a brace of wax-work be- 
tween the side that inclines and the nearest wall of the 
hive. The spider, in like manner, whose web is in danger, 
runs a line, from the part exposed to the severest strain or 
pressure, to the nearest point of support, in such a manner 
as to secure the slender fabric. A bird has been known, in 
like manner, to support a bough, which proved too frail to 
sustain the weight of the nest, and of her young, by con- 
necting it, with a thread, to a stronger branch above. 

These Facts do not prove Reason. — Facts of this nature, 
however interesting, and well authenticated, must be re- 
garded rather as exceptions to the ordinary rule, the nearest 
approach which mere instinct has been known to make 
toward the dividing line that separates the brute from the 
human intelligence. They do not, in themselves, prove the 
existence of reason, of a discriminating and reflecting intel- 
ligence, on the part of the animal ; for the same law of na- 
ture that impels the creature to build its nest or its comb, 
under ordinary circumstances, in the ordinary manner, may 
certainly be supposed to be capable of inducing a change 
of operation to meet a sudden exigency, and one liable at 
any time to occur. It is certainly not more wonderful, nor 
so wonderful, that the bee should be induced to brace her 
comb, or the spider her web, when in danger, as that either 
should be able to construct her edifice originally, at the 
precise angle employed. It must be remembered, more- 
over, that, in the great majority of cases, brute instinct 
shows no such capacity of adaptation to circumstances. 

The Question before us. — We are ready now to incpiire 
how far that which we call instinct in the brute, differs 
from that which we call intelligence in man. Is it a differ- 
ence in kind, or only in (Ipffrep? A glance at the history 
of the doctrine mav aid us here. 



INSTINCT. 333 

Early Views. — From Aristotle to Descartes, philosophers 
took the latter view. They ascribed to the brute a degree 
of reason, such as would be requisite in man, w^ere he to do 
the same things, and proceeding on this principle, they attri- 
buted to animals an intelligence proportioned to the wants 
of their nature and organization. This principle, it need 
hardly be said, is an assumption. It is not certain that the 
same action proceeds from the same principle in man, and in 
the brute ; that whatever indicates and involves intelligence 
and reason, in the one case, as its source, involves the same 
in the other. This is a yirtnaX petitio prijici^ni. It assumes 
the very point in question. It may be that what man does 
by virtue of an intelligent, reflecting, rational soul, looking 
before and after, the brute does by virtue of entirely a dif- 
ferent principle, a mere unintelligent impulse of his nature, 
a blind sensation, prompting him to a given course. This 
is the question to be settled, the thing to be proved or dis- 
proved. And if the view already given of the character of 
brute instinct^ is correct, the position now stated as possi- 
ble, may be regarded as virtually established. 

View of Descartes. — Descartes, perceiving the error of 
previous philosophers, went to the opposite extreme, and 
resolved the instinct and action of the brute into mere mech- 
anism, a principle little different from that by which the 
weight moves the hands of the clock. The brute performs 
the functions of his nature and organization, just as the 
puppet moves hither and thither by springs hidden within, 
of which itself knows nothing. The bird, the bee, the ant, 
the spider, are so organized, such is the hidden mechanism 
of their curious nature, that at the proper times, and under 
the requisite conditions, they shall build, each its own pro- 
per structure ; and perform, each, its own proper work and 
office. So doing, each moves automatically, mechanicall3\ 

Locke and his Disciples. — Differing, again, from this 
view, which certainly ascribes too little, as the opposite 
theory ascribes too much to the brute, Locke, Oondillac, and 



334 INSTINCT. 

their disciples in France and England, took the ground that 
the actions of the brnte which seem to indicate intelligence, 
are to be ascribed to the power of habit, and to the law of 
association. The faculties of the brute, as indeed of man, 
resolve themselves ultimately into impressions from with- 
out. Nothing is innate. The dog scents his prey, and the 
beaver builds his dam, and the bird migrates to a warmer 
clime, from the mere force of habit, unreflecting, unintelli- 
gent. But how, it may occur to some one to ask, happens 
such a habit to be formed in the first place ? How happens 
the poor insect, just emerging from the egg, to find in him- 
self all requisite appliances and instruments for capturing 
his prey ? How happens the bee always, throughout all its 
generations, to hit upon the same contrivance for storing 
its honey, and not only so, but to select out of a thousand 
different forms, and different possible angles, always the 
same one ? And so of the ant, the spider, etc. And if this 
is a matter of education, as it certainly is not, then how 
came tlie first bee, the first ant, spider, or other insect, to 
hit upon so admirable an expedient ? 

The Scotch Philosophers. — On the other hand, Reid, 
Stewart, and the Scotch philosophers generally, departing 
widely from the merely mechanical view, have ascribed to 
instinct some actions which are properly automatic and in- 
voluntary, as the shutting of the eyelid on the approach of 
a foreign body, the action of the infant in obtaining its 
food from the mother's breast, and certain other like move- 
ments of the animal organization, which, according to re- 
cent discoveries in physiology, are to be attributed, rather 
to the simple reflex action of the nerves and muscles. This 
is not properly instinct. 

Question returns. — Among these several views, where 
then, lies the truth ? Unable to coincide with the merely 
mechanical theory of Descartes, or with the view which re- 
solves all into mere habit and association, with Locke and 
Oondillac, shall we fall back upon the ancient, and for a long 



INSTINCT. 335 

time universally prevalent, view which makes in-stinct only 
a lower' degree of that intelligence which, in man, becomes 
reason and reflection ? This we are hardly prepared to do. 
The well-known phenomena and laws of instinct, its essen- 
tial characteristics as developed in the preceding pages, seem 
to point to a difference in kind and not merely in degree. 

Reasons for this Opinion. — 1. The Brute incapable of 
high Cultivation. — To recapitulate briefly the points of 
difference : If instinct in the brute were of the same nature 
with intelligence in man, if it were, properly speaking, intel- 
ligence, the same in kind, differing only in degree, then, it 
ought, as in man, to be capable of cultivation to an indefi- 
nite extent, capable of being elevated, by due process of 
training, to a degree very much superior to that in which 
it first presents itself. Now, with certain insignificant 
exceptions such is certainly not the case. JN^o amount of 
training or culture ever brings the animal essentially above 
the ordinary range of brute capacity, or approximates him 
to the level of the human species. 

2. Brute does not improve by Practice.— On this theory 
the brute ought, moreover, to improve by practice, which, 
for the most part, certainly he does not. The spider lays 
out its lines as accurately and constructs its web as well, 
and the bee her comb, and the bird her nest, on the first 
attempt, as after the twentieth or the fiftieth trial. There 
is no progress, no improvement. Its skill, if such it may 
be called, is a fixture. There is nothing of the nature of 
science about it, for it is of the essential nature of all intel- 
ligent action to improve. 

3. Does not adapt itself to Circumstances. — If it were of 
the nature of intelligence, it ought uniformly and invaria- 
bly to adapt itself to changing circumstances, and not to 
keep on working blindly in the old way, when such pro- 
cedure is no longer of use. It is not intelligence, but* mere 
blind impulse, in the beaver, that leads him to build his 
dam on a dry floor or the pavement of a court-yard. 



330 INSTINCT. 

4. Opposite View proves too much. — It is furthermore 
to be noticed, that the theory under consideration, -v^^hile it 
ascribes to the brute only ii lower degree of intelligence, in 
reality places him, in some respects^ far beyond man in point 
of intellect. If the instinct of the brute be intelligence at 
all, it is intelligence which leaves his prouder rival, man, in 
many cases, quite in the shade. No science of man can vie 
with the mathematical j)recision of the spider or the be3 in 
the practical construction of lines and planes that shall en- 
close a given angle. The engineer must take lessons of the 
ant in the art of running lines and parallels. To the same 
humble insect belongs the invention of the arch and of the 
dome in architecture. Many of the profoundest questions 
and problems of science are in like manner virtually solved 
by those creatures that possess, it is claimed, only a lower 
degree of intelligence than man. The facts are inconsistent 
with the theory. The theory either goes too far, or not far 
enough. If instinct is intelligence at all, it is intelligence, 
in some respects at least, superior to man's. 

For reasons now stated, we must conclude that the intel- 
ligence of the brute differs in kind, and not in degree 
merely, from that of man. 

Faculties wanting in the Brute. — If now the inquiry be 
raised, what are the specific faculties which are wanting in 
the brute, but possessed by man, in other w^ords, where runs 
the dividing line which mai;ks off the domain of instinct 
from that of intellect, we reply, beginning with the differ- 
ences which are most obvious, the brute is, in the first place, 
not a morcd and religious being. He has no moral nature, 
no ideas of right and justice, none of accountabilit}^ and 
of a higher power. lie is, moreover, not an (esthetic being. 
He has no taste for beauty, nor appreciation of it. The 
liorse, with all his apparent intelligence, looks out upon the 
most enchanting landscape as unmoved by its beauty as the 
carriage which he draws. He has no idea, no cognizance of 
the beautiful. The faculty of original conception, whicli 



INSTINCT. 337 

fumislies man with ideas of this nature, seems to be wanting 
in the brute. He is, furthermore, not a scientific being. He 
does not understand the principles by which he himself 
works. He makes no progress or improvement, accordingly, 
in the application of those principles, but works as well first 
a-, last. He leaFus nothing by experience. Certain grand 
rules and principles do indeed lie at the foundation of his 
work, but they have no subjective existence in the brute 
himself. Now the faculties which constitiito man a scien- 
tific being are those which, in the present treatise, we have 
grouped together under the title of reflective. These seem 
to be wanting in the brute. He never classifies, nor ana- 
lyzes, never forms abstract conceptions, never generalizes, 
judges, nor reasons, never reflects on what is passing around 
him ; never, in tlie true sense of the word, thinks . 

Further Deficiency. — Here many, perhaps most, who 
have reflected upon the matter at all, would place the divid- 
ing line between man and the brute, denying him the pos- 
session of reason and reflection, the higher intellectual pow- 
ers, but allowing him the other faculties which man enjoys. 
AYe must go further, however, and exclude imagination 
from the list of brute faculties. Having no idea of the 
beautiful, nor any power of forming abstract conceptions, 
the ideals, according to which imagination shapes its crea- 
tions,' are wholly wanting, and imagination itself, the fac- 
ulty of the ideal, must also be wanting. 

The Power to perceive and remember. — But has the 
brute the power of perception and memory, the only two 
distinct remaining faculties of the human mind? If we 
distinguish, as we must, the physical from the strictly intel- 
lectual element, in perception by the senses, the capacity to 
receive impressions of sense, from the capacity to under- 
stand and hno^o the object, as such, from which the impres- 
sions proceed, while we must admit the former, we should 
question the existence of the latter in the brute. To know 
or understand the objects of sense, to distinguish them as 
15 



338 I N S T I N (; T . 

such, from c.ich other, and from self as the perceiving sub- 
ject, is ail attribute of intelligence in its strict and proper 
sense, an attribute of mind. If the brute possesses it, he 
possesses as really a mind, though not of so high an order, 
as man. 

The dividing Line. — Now it is just here that we are com- 
pelled to place the line of division between the brute and 
man, between instinct and intellect. Tiie brute has senses, 
as man ; in some r^'spects, indeed, more perfect than his. 
Objects external make impressions upon his senses ; his eye, 
his ear, his various organs of sense, respond to these impres- 
sions. In a word, he has sensations, and those sensations 
are accompanied, as all sensations in their nature are, and 
must be, with consciousness, that is, they are felt. But this 
does not necessarily involve what we understand by con- 
sciousness in its higher sense, or self- consciousness. The 
brute has, we believe, no knowledge of himself as such, no 
self-consciousness, properly speaking; does not distinguish 
between self as perceiving, and the object as perceived, has 
no conception of self as a separate existence distinct from 
the objects around him, has, strictly speaking, no ideas, no 
thoughts,no intelligent comprehension of objects about him ; 
has sensations, but no perceptions in the true sense of the 
word, since perception involves the distinction of subject and 
object, or self-consciousness. These distinctions are lost to 
the brute, blindly merged in the one simple consciousness of 
physical sensation. He feels, but docs not think, does not 
understand. Sensation takes the place of understanding and 
reason with him. It is his guide. To the impressions thus 
received, his nature blindly responds, he knows not how or 
why. He is so constituted by his wise and benevolent 
Maker, that sensation being awakened, the impulses of his 
nature at once spring into i)lay, and prompt irresistibly to 
action, and to such action as shall meet the wants of the 
being. There is no need for intelligence to supervene, as 
with man. The l)rute feels and acls. Man feels, thinks, and 



IKSTINCT. 339 

acts. The Creator has provided for the former, a substi- 
tute which takes the place of intellect, and secures by 
blind, yet unerring impulse, the simple ends which cor- 
respond to his simpler necessities, and his humbler sphere. 

Man's Superiority. — Herein lies man's mastership and 
dominion over the brute. He has what the brute has not, 
intellect, mind, the power of thought, the power to under- 
stand and know. Just so far as he fails to grasp this high 
prerogative. Just so far as he is governed by sensation and 
its corresponding impulses, rather than by intelligence and 
reason, just in such degree he lays aside his superiority, and 
sinks to the sphere of the_ brute. Thus, in infancy and 
early life, there is little difference. Thus, many savage and 
uneducated races never rise far above the brute capacity, 
are mere creatures of sensation, impulse, instinct. 

In one Respect inferior. — In one respect, indeed, man, 
destitute of intelligence or failing to govern himself by its 
precepts, sinks helow the brute. He has not the substitute 
for intelligence which the brute has, has not instinct to 
guide him, and teach him the true and proper bounds of 
indulgence, but giving way to passion and inclination, 
without restraint, presents that most melancholy spectacle 
on which the sun, in all his course, ever looks down, a man 
under the dominion of his own appetites, incapable of self- 
government, lost to all nobleness, all virtue, all self-respect. 

Memory in the Brute. — It may still be asked, does not 
the brute remember f It is the office of memory to replace 
or represent what has been once felt or perceived. It sim- 
ply reproduces, in thought, what has once passed before 
the mind. It originates nothing. Whatever, then, of in- 
teUigence was involved in the original act of perception and 
sensation, so much and no more is involved in the replacing 
those sensations and perceptions. If in the original act 
there was nothing but simple sensation, without intellectual 
apprehension of the object, without self-consciousness or 
distinction of subject from object, then, of course, nothing 



340 INSTINCT. 

more than this will be subsequently reproduced. Mere 
images or phantasms of sensible objects may reappear, as 
shadows flicker and dance upon the wall, or as such images 
flit before us in our dreams. The memory of the brute is, 
jorobably, of this nature, rather a sort of dream than a 
distinct conception of past events. What was not clearly 
apprehended at flrst, will not be better understood now. 
Failing, in the flrst instance, to distinguish self from the 
object external, as the source of impressions, there can be 
no recognition of that distinction Avhen the object reap- 
l^ears, if it ever should, in conception. The essential ele- 
ment of memory, which connects the object or event of 
former perception with self as the percipient, must, in 
such a case, be wanting. 

The Brute associates rather than remembers. — What is 
usually called memory in the brute, is not, however, so 
much his capacity of conceiving of an absent object of 
sense, as his recognition of the object when again actually 
present to his senses. The dog manifests pleasure at the 
appearance of his master, and the horse chooses the road 
that leads to his former home. This is not so much memory 
as association of ideas or rather of feelings. Certain feel- 
ings and sensations are associated, confusedly blended, with 
certain objects. The reappearance of the objects, af course, 
reawakens the former feelings. Thus, the whip is associated 
with the sensation experienced in connection with it. So, 
too, a horse which has once been frightened by some object 
beside the road, will manifest fear on subsequently approach- 
ing the same place, although the same object may no longer 
be there. The surrounding objects which still remain, and 
which were associated with the more immediate object of 
fear in the first instance, are sufficient to awaken, on their 
reappearance, the former unpleasant sensations. 

A being endowed with intelligence and reason would 
connect the rocnrring object, in such a case, with his own 
former experience as the ])erceiving subject, would recall 



IKSTIKCT. 341 

the time and the circumstances of the event and its con- 
nection with his personal history. This would be, proper!}^, 
an act of memory. 

But there is no reason to suppose that such a process 
takes place with the brute. We have no evidence of any 
thing more, in his case, than the recurrence of the as- 
sociated conception or sensation, along with the recurrence 
of the object which formerly produced it. Given, the ob- 
ject a, accompanied with surrounding objects ^, c, d^ and 
there is produced a given sensation, y. Given, again, at 
some subsequent time, the same object a, or any one of the 
associate objects l, c, d, and there is at once awakened a 
lively conception of the same sensation y. 

Summary of Kesults. — This is, I think, all we can, with 
any certainty, attribute to the brute. He has sensations, 
and so far as mere sense is concerned, perceptions of objects, 
as connected with those sensations, but not perception in 
the true sense as involving intellectual apprehension. These 
sensations and confused perceptions recur, perhaps, as 
images or conceptions, in the absence of the objects that 
gave rise to them, and as thus reappearing, constitute what 
we may call the memory of the brute; but not, as with us, 
a memory which connects the object or event with his own 
former iiistory, and the idea of a personal self as the per- 
cipient. Let the object, however, reappear, and the pre- 
vious sensation associated therewith, is reawakened. 

This, I am aware, is not the view most commonly enter- 
tained of brute intelligence. We naturally conceive of the 
brute as possessing faculties similar to our own. Tlie brute, 
in turn, were he capable of forming such a conception, 
would, probably, conceive of man, as endowed with 
capacities like his own. In neither case is this the right 
conception. 



CHAPTHH Ih 

MIND AS AFFECTED BY CERTAIN STATES OF THE 
BRAIN AND NERVOUS SYSTEM. 

Statement. — There are certain mental phenomena con- 
nected with tlie rehiti<m which the mind sustains to the 
nervous organism, and depending intimately on the state 
of that organism, wliich seem to require tlie notice of the 
psychologist, though often overlooked by him ; I refer to 
the phenomena of sleep, dreams, somnambulism, and in- 
sanity. So far as the activity of the mind is involved in 
these states or phenomena, ihey become proper objects of 
psychological inquiry. They present many problems dif- 
ficult of solution, yet not the less curious and interesting, 
as phases of mental activity hitherto little understood. 

View sometimes taken by Physiologists. — It becomes 
the more important for the psycliologist to investigate tliese 
phenomena, inasmuch as views and theories little accordant 
with the true philosophy of the mind have sometimes been 
put forth by physiologists, in attempting to explain the 
2)henomena in question. They have viewed the cerebral 
apparatus as competent of itself to produce the phenomena 
of thought, as self-acting, in the absence of the higher 
principle of intelligence which usually governs its opera- 
tions, carrying on by a sort of automatic action, the pro- 
cesses usually ascribed to the mind or spiritual principle, 
while consciousness and volition are entirely suspended. 
Consciousness, in fact, is nothing but sensation, and 
thought a mere function of the brain. This is downright 
materialism, a doctrine utterly subversive of the very ex- 
istence of that which we call mind or soul in man. If the 
cerebral organization is competent of itself during sleep to 



STATES OF THE NERVOUS SYSTEM. 343 

carry on those operations which in waking moments are 
ascribed to tlie spiritual element of our being, if thought 
is a function of the brain, as digestion is of the stomach, 
what need and what evidence of any thing more than 
merely cerebral action at any time ? What, in fact, is the 
mind itself but cerebral activity, and what is man, with all 
his higher powers, but a mere animated organism ? 

It becomes important, then, to account for the phenomena 
under consideration in some way more consistent with all 
just and true notions of the nature and philosophy of 
mind. 

Distinction of normal and abnormal States. — Of these 
phenomena, while all may be regarded as intimately con- 
nected with and dependent on the state of the brain and 
nervous system, some seem to proceed from a normal, others 
from an abnormal and disordered state of the nervous and 
particularly the cerebral organism. Of the former class, 
are sleep and dreams ; of the latter, somnambulism, the 
mesmeric state, so called, and the various forms of dis- 
ordered mental action, or insanity. 

§ I.-SLEEP. 

Meaning of the Term. — What is sleep ? Will the name 
itself afford any solution of this problem ? Like most 
names of familiar things, we find the word descriptive of 
some particular circumstance or phase, some one prominent 
characteristic of the thing in question, rather than a defi- 
7iiHon—'m.uch less an explanation — of the thing itself. 

The word sleep, from schlafen, as the Latin somnus from 
siopinns, refers to the supine condition and appearance of 
the body when in this state ; the relaxing of the muscles, 
the falling back or sinking down of the frame, if unsup- 
ported. This is the first and most obvious effect to the eye 
of an observer, of the condition of sleep as regards the 
body. Further than this the word gives us no light. 



344 M INI) AS AFFECTED BY 

1. Sleep involves primarily Loss of Consoiousness. — What 
then, further than this, is sleep? If we observe somewhat 
closely, and with a view to scientific arrangement, the dif- 
ferent aspects or phenomena that present themselves as 
constituting tliat state of body and mind which we call 
sleep, the primary and most obvious fact, I apprehend, is 
loss of consciousness, of tJie me. Not perhaps of all con- 
sciousness, for we seem still to exist, but of self-conscious- 
ness, of the mc as related to time, and place, and external 
circumstance. We lose ounelves, as a common but most 
exact expression describes it. 

We are not at the Time aware of this Loss. — Of course, 
sleep consisting primarily in loss of consciousness, we are 
not conscious of the fact that we sleep, for this would be a 
consciousness that we were unconscious. Illustrations of 
this fact are of frecpient occurrence. You are of an evening 
getting weary over your book. You are vaguely conscious 
of that weariness, amounting even to drowsiness; you find 
it difficult to follow the course of thought, or even to keep 
the line, but have no idea that you are at length actually 
asleep for the moment, till the sudden fall of the book 
awakens you. Na}^, one who has been vigorously nodding 
for five minutes will, on recovering himself, stoutly deny 
that he has really been asleep at all ; the truth is, he was 
not conscious of it; we never are, directly. 

This results from what ? — This loss of consciousness re- 
sults from the inactivity of the bodily senses. It is these 
that afford us the data for a knowledge of self in relation 
to external things. In sleep these avenues of communica- 
tion with the external world are shut up, and wo silently 
drop off, and, as it were, fioat away from all conscious con- 
nection with it. We no longer recognize our relations to 
time and space, nor even to our own bodies, which, as 
material, come under those relations ; for it is by the senses 
alone that Ave get these ideas. So far as couFciousness of 
these relations is concerned, wc exist in sleep as in death. 



STATES OF THE :N^ERV0US SYSTEM. 345 

out of the laws and limits of time and space, and irrespec- 
tive of the body and of all material existence. Mental ac- 
tion, however, doubtless goes on, and we are conscious of 
thought and of the feeling of the moment, but of nothing- 
further. All self-consciousness is gone. 

An Affection primarily of the nervous System. — Sleep, 
then, would seem to be primarily an affection of the nervous 
system ; not of the reproductive — that goes on as usual, and 
even vv^ith increased vigor ; nor yet of the muscular — that 
is still capable of action: but only of the nervous. That 
gets weary; by continued use, its vital active force is ex- 
hausted, it needs rest, becomes inactive, gradually drops off, 
and so there results this loss of consciousness, of which I 
have spoken. It is strictly, then, the nervous system, and 
not the whole body that sleeps. 

Different Senses fall Asleep successively. —The different 
senses become inactive and fall asleep, not all at once, but 
successively. First, sight goes. The ej^elids droop, and 
close. Taste and smell probably next. Touch, and hear- 
ing, are among the • last to give way. Hence, noises so 
easily disturb us, when falling asleep. Hence, too, we are 
most easily awaked by some one repeating our name, or by 
some one touching us. These senses are also the first to 
waken. One sense may be asleep and another awake. 
You may still hear what one is saying that sits near you, 
when already the eye is asleep. So in death, one hears 
when no longer able to see or to speak. 

2. Loss of personal Control. — Accompanying this loss of 
self-consciousness is the loss of j^ersonal control, i. e., the 
control of the will over the bodily organization. This fol- 
lows from the inactivity of the senses and of the nervous 
system, for it is only through that, and not by direct agency 
of the will, that we, at any time, exert voluntary power over 
the body. When that system becomes exhausted, and its 
force is spent, so that it can no longer furnish the motive 
power, nor execute the commands of the higher intelligence, 
15* 



346 MIND AS AFFECTED BY 

the will no longer maintains its empire over the physical 
organization, its little realm of matter, its control is sus- 
l^ended, its sceptre falls, and it realizes for the time the 
story of the enchanted palace on which a magic spell had 
fallen, suddenly arresting the busy tide of life, and sealing 
uj), on the instant, the senses of king, courtiers, and at- 
tendants, in the unbroken sleep of ages. 

Indications of approaching Sleep. — One of the first indi- 
cations, accordingly, of the approach of sleep, is the relax- 
ing of the muscles, the drooping of the eyelid, the drop- 
ping of the head and of the arm, the sinking down of the 
body from an erect to a supine position. If in church, the 
head seeks the friendly support of the pew in front, fortu- 
nate if it can secure itself there from the still further de- 
mands of gravitation. 

Analogous Cases. — In respect to the point now under 
consideration, the loss of control over the physical frame, 
the phenomena of sleep closely resemble those of intoxica- 
tion, and of fainting ; and for the same reason, in either 
case, i, e., the inactivity of the nervous system, which is the 
medium of voluntary power over the body. That inactiv- 
ity of the nervous system is produced in the one case by 
natural, in the other by unnatural causes, but the direct 
effect is the same as regards the loss of voluntary power. 
The same effects are also produced in certain diseases, and 
eventually by death. 

3. Loss of Control over the Mind. — Analogous to this is 
the loss of voluntary control over the mental operations, 
which is in fact, so far as the mind is concerned, the essen- 
tial feature and characteristic of sleep. ?^ental action still 
goes on, there is reason to suppose ; in many cases we know 
that it does ; but the thoughts come and go at their own 
pleasure, without regulation or control. It is not in our 
power to arrest a certain thought, and fix our minds upon it 
for tlie time, to the exclusion of others, as we can do in the 
waking moments, and which constitutes, in fact, the chief 



STATES OF THE NERVOUS SYSTEM. 347 

control and power we have over our thoughts, nor can we 
dismiss, and throw off, an unpleasant train of thought, a 
disagreeable impression, however much we may desire to 
be rid of it. We are at the mercy of our own thoughts 
and casual associations, which, in the ungoverned, sponta- 
neous play of the mind's own inherent energy, and guided 
only by its own native laws, produce the wildest and 
strangest phantasmagoria, having to us all the semblance 
of reality, while we are, in truth, mere passive spectators of 
the scene. 

Faculties of Mind not suspended in Sleep. — It has been 
supposed by some that the faculties of the mind are, in part 
or wholly, suspended in sleep, especially the higher faculties 
more immediately dependent on the will. So long as men- 
tal activity goes on, however, — and there is no evidence that 
it ever entirely ceases in sleep — so long there is thought, 
and so long must that thought and activity be exerted in 
some particular direction, and on some particular object. 
We cannot conceive of the mind as acting or thinking, and 
not exercising any of its faculties, for what is a faculty of 
the mind but its capacit}^ of acting in this gr that way or 
mode, and on this or that class of subjects. It maybe per- 
ception, or conception, or memory, or imagination, or judg- 
ment, or reasoning, or any other faculty that is for the mo- 
ment active; it must be some one of the known faculties of 
the mind, unless, indeed, we suppose some new faculties to 
be then developed, of whose existence we are at other times 
unconscious. 

Mental Action modified by certain Causes in Sleep. — The 
faculties will, however, be materially modified in their ac- 
tion during sleep, by the causes already named; chiefly 
these two : 1st, the entire suspension of voluntary control 
over the train of thought ; 2d, the loss of personal con- 
sciousness as regards especially the bodily organization, and 
its present relations to time, and space, and all sensible ob- 
jects. In consequence of thQ former our thoughts will come 



oiS MIND AS AFFECTED BY 

and go all unregulated and disconnected : there will be no 
coherence ; the slightest analysis will suffice for the associa- 
ting principle ; wo shall l)e hurried on and borne away on 
the rushing tide of thought, as a frail passive leaf swept on 
the bosom of the rapids; we shall whirl hither and thither 
110 in the dance of the witches ; we shall waken in coufu- 
cion, and seek to recover the reins of self-control, only to 
loso them again and bo swept on in the fearful dance. 

Want of Congruity owing to what. — In consequence of 
the laffcr cause— the loss of sensational consciousness and 
of our relations to sensible objects — there will be an entire 
want of fitness and congruity in our mental operations. 
The laws of time, and space, and personal identity, will be 
altogether disregarded, and we shall not be conscious of the 
incongruity, nor wonder at the strangest and most contra- 
dictory combinations. Here, there, everywhere, now this 
and now that. The scene is in the valley of the Connecti- 
cut, and anon on the Ural mountains, or the desert of Ara- 
bia, and we do not notice the change as any thing at all re- 
markable. Kow we are walking up the aisle of the church, 
in garments ali too scanty for the proprieties of the occa- 
sion, and now it is a wild bull that is racing after us, and 
the transition from the one to the other is instantaneous. 
Why should it not be, for it is by the senses alone that we 
are brought into conscious relation to the external world, 
and so made cognizant of the laws of time and space, and 
thos3 senses being now locked in oblivion, what are time 
and space to us ? 

The Causes now named a sufficient Explanation of the 
Phenomena. — 'i'he causes already named will sufficiently 
account for the strange and distorted action of the various 
mental faculties as exercised in sleep. Memory, ^.z/., will 
give us the past with variations ad libitum ; things will 
ai)pear to us, and events will seem to transpire, and forms 
and faces familiar will look out upon us, not as they really 
are, or ever were. We talk with a former friend, ^vithout the 



STATES OF THE IfERVOUS SYSTEM. 349 

thought once occurring to us that he has been dead these 
many years. Impression there is, feeling, idea, fancy, as- 
sociation of all these, but hardly memory, or even imagina- 
tion, much less judgment or reasoning. So it would seem 
at first. A closer inspection, however, will show us that 
there is in reality, in this spontaneous play of the mind, the 
exercise of all these faculties, only so modified by causes 
now named as to present strange and uncouth results. 

Mental Faculties not immediately dependent on the Will. 
— If any of the mental faculties can be showi. to be entirely 
dependent on the will for their activity and operation, so as 
to have no power to act except by its order or permission, 
then it would follow that when the will is no longer in pos- 
session of the throne, when its sway is for the time sus- 
pended as in sleep, the faculties thus dependent on it must 
lie inactive. But with regard to most if not all mental 
operations, we know the reverse to be true. They are 
capable of spontaneous, as well as voluntary action. Nay, 
some of them, it would seem, are not subject, in any case, 
directly to its control. It is not at our option whether to 
remember or forget, wdiether to perceive surrounding ob- 
jects, whether such or such a thought shall, by the laws of 
association, follow next in the train of ideas and impres- 
sions. Some mental operations are more closely connected 
with and admit of a more direct interference on the part of 
the will than others, but it cannot be shown, I think, that 
any faculty is so far dependent on the will as not to be ca- 
pable of action, irrespective of its demands. Indeed, facts 
seem to show that where once a train of mental action has 
been set in operation by the will, that action goes on, for a 
time, even when the will is withdrawn, or held in abeyance, 
as in sleep, or profound reverie. 

Whence this Suspension of Power of the Will. — The 
question may occur, whence arises this suspension of the 
power of the will over the mental operations in sleep ? 
What produces it ? Does it, like the loss of voluntary 



350 MIND AS AFFECTED BY 

power over the i)hysical frame, result from the inactivity 
of the nervous apparatus? The fact that it always accom- 
panies this, and is found in connection with it, that what- 
ever produces the latter seems to be the occasion, also, of 
the former, as in the case of disease, delirium, mesmeric in- 
fluence, stupefying drugs, inebriation, etc., and that tho 
degree of the one, whether partial or complete, is in propor- 
tion to the degree of the other — these facts seem to me to 
favor the idea now suggested. 

Summary of Results. — These, then, seem to be the prin- 
cipal phenomena of sleep: loss of sensational conscious- 
ness, loss of voluntary power over the body, loss of volun- 
tar}' power over the operations of the mind. 

Exhaustion of the nervous System. — Sleep, then, appears 
to be primarily an affection of the nervous system, the re- 
sult of its exhaustion. By the law of nature, it cannot 
continue always active ; repose must succeed to effort. 
Hence, the more rapid the exhaustion of the nervous sys- 
tem, from any cause, the more sleep is demanded. This 
we know to be the fact. The more sensitive the system, as 
in childhood, or with the gentler sex, as in men of great 
sensibility also, poets, artists, and others, the more sleep. 
On the other hand, those sluggish natures which allow 
nothing to excite or call into action the nervous system, 
sleep from precisely the opposite cause ; not the exhaustion 
of neiwous activity, but its absolute non-existence. If both 
our systems, the animal and the vegetative or nutritive, 
should sleep at once, says Ranch, there would l)e nothing 
to awaken us. That would be death. '^In sleep, every 
man has a world of his own,'' says Heraclitus; "when 
awake, all men have one in common.'' Sleeping and wak- 
ing, it has been beautifully said by another, are the ebb and 
flood of mind and matter on the ocean of our life. 



STATES OF THE KERVOUS S Y S T E 31 . 351 
§ II.-DREAMS. 

Resume of previous Investigation. — It has been shown 
in the preceding section, that sleep is primarily and chiefly 
an affection of the nervous system, in which, through ex- 
haustion, the senses become inactive, and, as it were, dead, 
while, at the same time, the nutritive system and the func- 
tions essential to life go on ; that in consequence of this 
inactivity of the sensorium, there results, 1. Loss of con- 
sciousness, so far, at least, as regards all connection witli, 
and relation to, external things ; 2. Loss of voluntary power 
over the physical and muscular frame ; 3. Loss of volun- 
tary control over the operations of the mind ; the mind 
still remaining active, however, and its operations going 
on, uncontrolled by the will. 

We are now prepared to take up, more particularly, that 
specific form of mental activity in sleep, called dreaming ; 
a state which admits of easy explanation on principles 
already laid down. 

A Dream, what. — What, then, is a dream? I reply, it is 
any mental action in sleep, of which, for any reason, we are 
afterward conscious. This is not the case with all, perhaps, 
with most mental action during sleep. Senses and the will 
are inactive, then, for the most part, and whatever thoughts 
and impressions may be wrought out in the laboratory of 
the mind, whatever play of forces and wondrous alchemy 
may there be going on, when the controlling principle that 
presides over and directs its operations is withdrawn, are, 
for the most part, never subsequently reported. Let the 
sensitivity be partially aroused, however, let some disturb- 
ing cause come in to prevent entire loss of sensibility, or let 
the conceptions of the mind present themselves with more 
than usual vividness and force of impression, and what we 
then think may afterward be remembered. This is the 
philosophy of dreams. What is thus remembered of our 
thoughts in sleep, we call a dream, more especially applying 
the term to such of our thoughts and conceptions in sleep, 



352 MIND AS AFFECTED B Y 

as have some degree of coherence and connection between 
themselves, so as to constitute u sort of unity. 

Sources of our Dreams. — Our dreams take shape and 
character from a variety of circumstances. They are not 
altogether accidental nor unaccountable ; and even when we 
cannot trace the connection, there is reason to supjiose that 
such connection exists between the dream, and the state of 
the body, or of the mind, at the time, as, if known, would 
account for tlie shape and complexion of the dream. Tlie 
principal sources, or, perhaps, it were more correct to say, 
modifying influences of our dreams are, 1, Our present 
bodily sensations, and especially the internal state of the 
physical system, and, 2, Our previous waking thoughts, 
dispositions and prevalent states of mind. 

Illustrations of the first. — As to the first of these modi- 
fying causes, instances of its operation will probably occur 
to every one from his own experience. You find yourself 
on a hard bed, or, it may be, have thrown yourself into some 
uncomfortable position, and you dream of broken bones or 
of tlie rack. The band of your robe buttons tightly about 
the neck, and you dream of hanging. You have taken a 
late supper of food highly seasoned and indigestible, and in 
your dreams a black bear very heavy and huge, quietly seats 
liimself on your chest, or, as a military officer once dreamed, 
under similar circumstances, the prince of darkness sits 
cross-legged over your stomach, with the Bunker Hill mon- 
ument in his lap. The instance related by Mr. Stewart, of 
the gentleman who, sleeping with bottles of hot water at his 
feet, dreamed that he was walking along the burning crater 
of Mount ^Etna, is in point here. Here the bodily sensation 
of heat upon the soles of the feet suggests the idea of a sit- 
uation in which such a sensation would be likely to occur, 
and this idea blending with the sensation which is perma- 
nent and real, assumes, also, the character of reality, and the 
dream shapes itself accordiugly. So when a window falls, or 
some sudden noise is heard, if it do not positively awaken 



STATES OF THE ITERVOUS SYSTEM. 353 

you so far as to make known the real cause, you hear the 
sound, the sensorium partially aroused mistakes it, perhaps, 
for the sound of a gun, and instantly you are in the midst of 
a battle at sea, or a fight with robbers. To such an extent 
are our dreams modified by sensible impressions of this 
yort, that it is possible, by skillful management, to shape 
and direct, to some extent, at least, the dreams of another 
as you will. An instance is related of an officer who was 
made, in this way, in his sleep, to go through with all the 
minutiae of a duel, even to the firing of the pistol which 
was placed in his hand, at the proper moment, the noise of 
which awoke him. This was simply an acted dream. 

Latent Disease. — ISTot unfreqnently, some physical dis- 
order, incipient or latent, of which we may not be aware 
in our waking moments, makes itself felt in the state of 
sleep, when the system is more susceptible of internal im- 
pressions, and thus modifies the dreams. In such cases, 
the dreams may serve as a sort of index of the state of the 
physical system, and somewhat, doubtless, of the appar- 
ently prophetic character of certain dreams may be ac- 
counted for in this way. 

The second Source. — A second source, if not of our dreams 
themselves, at least of the peculiar shape and character 
which they assume, is to be found in our previous thoughts, 
and prevalent mental occupations and dispositions. We fall 
asleep,* and mental action goes on much as before, in what- 
ever direction and channel it had already received an im- 
pulse. Whatever has made the deepest impression on us 
through the day, has longest or most intently occupied us, 
repeats itself the moment we lose our consciousness of sur- 
rounding objects. The mind goes on with the new and 
strange spectacle, or with the unfinished problem, and un- 
solved intricate study of the day or of the night hour ; and 
not seldom is the train of thought resumed and pursued to 
some purpose. On waking in the morning, we find little 
difficulty in completing a demonstration or solving a dif' 



354 MIND AS AFFECTED BY 

ficultj which had appeared insurmountable when we left 
it the previous night. Now the truth is, we did not leave 
it the previous night. It occupied us in our sleep. The 
brain was busy witli it, it may be, all the night. It is solved 
in the morning, not because the mind is fresher then, but 
because it has been at work upon it through the night. 
Sometimes we are conscious of this on waking, and can dimly 
recall the severe continuous mental toil which went on while 
we slept. Usually, I suppose, we have no consciousness of 
it, and our only evidence of it is the well-known law and 
habit of the mind, to run in its worn and latest channels, 
together with the often observed fact that the difficulty 
previously felt is, somehow, strangely solved. 

Further Illustration of the same Principle. — Condorcet is 
not the only mathematician who has received, in sleep, sug- 
gestions which led to the right solution of a problem that 
he had been obliged to leave unfinished on retiring for the 
night ; nor is Franklin the only statesman who has, in 
dreams, reached a satisfactory conclusion respecting some 
intricate political movement. However this may be, there 
can be no reasonable doubt tliat our previous mental occu- 
pation, our prevalent state and disposition of mind, our 
habits of thought and habits of feeling, determine and shape 
the complexion of our dreams. They have a suhjectivo con- 
nection, are by no means so disc onnected with us and our 
real history, so much a matter of hap-hazard, as one may 
suppose. It was not without reason that President Ed- 
wards took notice of his dreams as affording an index of the 
state of his heart, and his real native propensities. They 
are the vane that shows which way the mind is set. Who 
will say that the dreams of Lady Macbeth, those dreams of 
a guilty conscience, are not among the most truthful of the 
])ortraitures of the great master dramatist? 

Native Talent then shows itself. — Not only our native 
disposition and ])rovalent cast of tliouglit betray themselves 
in dreams, but, as a certain writer has remarked, our native 



STATES OF THE KERVOUS SYSTEM. 355 

talents shovv' out in those moments of spontaneous mental 
action. Talents which htiye had no opportunity to develop 
themselves, owing to our education and professional pur- 
suits, take their chance and their time when we sleep, and 
we are poets, artists, orators, whatever nature designed, 
whatever the trammelled mind longs, but longs in vain, to 
be in our waking moments. 

Incoherency of Dreams. — The incolierency of our dreams 
has been sufficiently accounted for in vfhat I have previ- 
ously said. It is not, I think, owing chiefly, as Upham sup- 
poses, to our loss of voluntary power and control over our 
thoughts during sleep, though it is quite true that we have 
no such control. The truth is, we are not at the time 
mvare of any such incoherency. It cannot, of course, be 
'owing then to our loss of voluntary power, since no increase 
of such power would enable us to repair a defect which we 
are unconscious of, but is owing entirely to another cause 
already mentioned, viz., that in sleep we lose our relation 
to things around us, lose our place, and our time, and 
hence, retain no standard of judging as to what is, and what 
is not, consentaneous and fit, self -consisten t and coherent. 

Apparent Reality. — ]S"othing is more remarkable in 
dreams than their apparent reality. The scenes, actions, 
and incidents, all stand out with peculiar distinctness, are 
projected as images into the air before us, and have not at 
all the semblance of any thing merely subjective. This has 
been, by some, ascribed to the fact that there is nothing to 
distract or call off the attention from the conceptions of 
the mind in dreams; wx are wholly in them, and hence they 
appear as realities. I do not find, however, that in propor- 
tion as my attention in waking moments is wholly absorbed 
in any train of thought, those conceptions manifest any such 
tendency to project themselves, so to speak, into objective 
reality. They are still mere conceptions, only more vivid. 
I am inclined, therefore, to aittribute the seeming reality of 
dreams to another source. We are accustomed to regard 



356 M I X D AS AFFECTED BY 

every thing as ohjeiMve, wliich is out of tlic reach and con- 
trol of our will, which comes and goes irrespective of us and 
our volition. Now, sucli we find to be the prime law of 
cerel)ral action in sleep. Of course, then, we are deceived 
into the belief that these conceptions over which we have 
no control, are not conceptions, but percepUons, realities. 

Estimate of Time. — Nothing has seemed to some writers 
more mysterious than the entire disproportion between the 
real and apparent time of a dream. I refer to the fact 
that our dreams occui)y frequently such very minute por- 
tions of time, while they seem to us to stretch over such 
long continued periods. An instance is related of an offi- 
cer confined in the prisons of the French Revolution, who 
was awakened by the call of the sentry changing guard, 
fell asleep again, witnessed, as he supposed, a very long and 
\ cry horrible procession of armed and bloody warriors, de- 
filing on horseback down a certain street of Paris, occupy- 
ing some hours in their passage, then awoke in terror in 
season to hear distinctly the response of the sentry to the 
challenge given before the dream began. The mind in 
such cases, say some, operates more rapidly than at other 
times. There is no evidence of that. Mr. Stewart has 
suggested, I think, the right explanation. As our dreams 
seem to us real, and we have no means of estimating time 
otherwise than by the apparent succession of events, the 
concoptions of the brain, that is, our dreams, seem ta us to 
take up just so much time in passing as the events them- 
selves would occupy were they real. This is perfectly a 
natural result, and it fully accounts for the apparent 
anomaly in question. 

Prophetic Aspect. — Are dreams sometimes prophet ic, 
and how are such to be accounted for? Cicero narrates a 
remarkable instance of what would seem to be a ]n*ophetic 
dream. I refer to the account of the two Arcadians who 
came to Megara and occui)ied different lodgings. The one 
of these ap})eare(l twice, in a dream, to the other, first im- 



STATES or THE NERVOUS SYSTEM. 357 

plonng help, then murdered^ and informing liis comrade 
that his body would be taken out of the city early in the 
morning, by a certain gate, in a covered wagon. Agitated 
by the dream, the other repairs at the designated time to the 
appointed place, meets the wagon, discovers the body, ar- 
rests the murderer; and delivers him to justice. 

Other Instances of the like Nature. — Another instance, 
perhaps equally striking, is narrated in the London Times. 
A Mr. Williams, residing in Cornwall, dreamed thrice in 
the same night that he saw the Chancellor of England 
killed, in the vestibule of the House of Commons. The 
dream so deeply impressed him that he narrated it to 
several of his acquaintance. It was subsequently ascer- 
tained that on the evening of that day the Chancellor, Mr. 
Perceval, was assassinated according to the dream. IsTow, 
this was certainly a remarkable coincidence. Was it any 
thing more ? Was it merely an accidental thing — a matter 
of chance — that the dream should occur as it did, and 
should tally so closely with the facts ? But these are not 
singular instances. Many such are on record. 

Case related by Dr. Moore. — Dr. Moore, author of an 
iliteresting work on the use of the body in relation to 
the mind, narrates the following, as coming under his own 
observation. A friend of his dreamed that he was amus- 
ing himself, as he was in the habit of doing, by reading 
the epitaphs in a country church -yard, when a newly made 
grave attracted his attention. He was surprised to find on 
the stone the name, and date of death, of an intimate 
friend of his, with whom he had passed that very evening 
in conversation. Nothing more was thought of the dream, 
however, nor, perhaps, would it ever have recurred to 
mind, had he not received intelligence, some months after- 
ward, of the death of this friend, which took place at the 
very date he had, in his dream, seen recorded on the tomb- 
stone. 

Case related by Dr. Abercrombie. — The case mentioned 



358 M I X D AS A F V E C T K 1) I) Y 

by Dr. Abercrombie is another of these remarkable coinci- 
dences. Two sisters sleeping in the same room adjoining 
that of a sick brother, the one awakens in allright, liaving 
dreamed that the watch had stopped, and that on mention- 
ing it to her sister, the latter replied, *' Worse than that has 
happened, for 's breath has stopped also." On examina- 
tion the watch was found going and the brother in a sound 
sleep. The next night the dream was repeated precisely as 
before with the same result. The next morning as one of the 
sisters had occasion to take the watch from the writing-desk 
she was surprised to find it had stopped, and at the same 
moment was startled by a scream from the other sister in the 
chamber of the sick man, who had, at that moment, expired. 

Additional Cases. — Another instance of a similar nature 
is related, but I know not on how good authority. The 
sister of Major Andre, it is said, dreamed of her absent 
brother, one night, as arrested and on trial before a court 
martial. The appearance of the officers, their dress, etc., 
was distinctly impressed on her mind ; the room, the rela- 
tive position of the prisoner and his judges, were noticed ; 
the general nature of the trial, and its result, the con- 
demnation of her brother. She Vvoke deeply impressed. 
Her fears were shortly afterward confirmed by the sad in- 
telligence of her brother's arrest, trial, and execution, and, 
what is remarkable, the facts corresponded to her dream, 
both as respects the time of occurrence, the place, the ap- 
pearance of the room, position, and dress of the judges, 
etc. Washington and Knox were particularly designated, 
though she had never seen them. 

Anotlier instance is related of a man who dreamed that 
the vessel in which his brother was an officer, and, in part, 
owner of the cargo, was wrecked on a certain island, and 
the vessel lost, but the hands saved. He was so impressed 
that lie went directly and procured an extra insurance of 
five thousand dollars on his Ijrother's portion of tlie property. 
By the next arrival news came that the vessel was wrecked. 



STATES OF THE i^ERYOUS SYSTEM. 359 

at the time and place of which the man had dreamed, and 
the mariners saved. 

Coincidences. — Now it is perfectly easy to call all these 
things coincidences. They certainly are. But is it certain, 
or is it probable, that they are mere coincidences ? To call 
them coincidences, and pass them off as if they were easily 
and fully accounted for in that way, is but a shallow con- 
cealment of our ignorance under a certain show of philos- 
ophy. It is but a conjecture at the best ; a conjecture, 
moreoyer, which explains nothing, but leaves the mystery 
just as great as before ; a conjecture which is by no means 
the most probable of all that might be made, but, on the 
contrary, one of the most improbable of all, as it seems to 
me. Mark, the cases I have now mentioned do not come 
under any of the laws or conditions laid down as giving rise 
or modification to our dreams. They are not suggested, so 
far as it appears, by any present bodily sensation on the 
part of the dreamer, nor was there any reason in the nature 
of the case why any such event, much less conjunction of 
events, should be apprehended by the dreamer in his waking 
moments. It was not the simple carrying out of his waking 
thoughts. Doubtless many dreams regarded as prophetic, 
may be explained on these principles. They are the result 
of our present sensations or impressions, or of the excited 
and anxious state of mind and train of thought during the 
day. But not so in the cases now cited. 

Not necessary to suppose them Supernatural.— Shall we 
believe, then, that dreams are sometimes prophetic ? We 
have no reason to doubt that they may be so. Are they, in 
that case, supernatural events ? No doubt the future may 
be supernaturally communicated in dreams. No doubt it has 
been, and that not in a few cases, as every believer in the 
sacred Scriptures must admit. But this is not a necessary 
supposition. A dream may be prophetic, yet not super- 
natural. Some law, not fully known to us, may exist, by 
virtue of which the nervous system, Avhen in a highly excited 



:]C)0 MIND AS AFFECTED BY 

state, becomes susceptible of imjires^ions not ordinarily 
received, and is put in communication, in some way to us 
mysterious, with scenes, places, and events, far distant, so 
as to become strangely cognizant of the coming future. 
Can any one show that this is impossible? Is it more im- 
probable than that the cases recorded are mere chance 
coincidences ? Is it not quite as likely to be so, as that the 
event should correspond, in so many cases and so striking 
a manner, with the previous dream, and yet there be no 
cause, whatever, for the correspondence ? Is it not as 
reasonable, even, as to suppose direct divine interposition 
to reveal the future, the possibility of which interposition 
I by no means deny, but the reason for which does not be- 
come apparent? Is it not possible that there may be some 
natural law or agent of the sort now intimated, some as 
yet unexplained, but partially known, condition of the 
physical system, when in a peculiarly sensitive state, of 
which the modus operandi is not yet understood, but the 
existence of which is indicated in cases like those now de- 
scribed ? That this is the true explanation, I by no means 
affirm ; I make the suggestion merely to indicate what, it 
seems to me, may be a possible solution of the problem. 

Possible Modes of accounting for the Facts.— Evidently 
there are only these four possible solutions. 1. To deny 
tiie facts themselves, i. e., that any such dreams occurred, 
or at least, that they were verified in actual result. 2. To 
call them accidental coincidences. 3. To admit a super- 
natural agency. 4. To explain them in the way suggested. 
Our choice lies, as it seems to me, between the second and 
the last of these suppositions. 

6 III.-SOMNAMBULISM. 

Relation to the magnetic State. — Somnambulism or sleep- 
walking, is called, by some writers, natural magnotic sleep, 
'IMk'V sui)po8e it to differ from the state ordinarily called 



STATES OF THE KERVOUS SYSTEM. 301 

mesmeric, chiefly in this, that the former is a natural, and 
the latter an artificial process. 

Resemblance of this to other cognate Phenomena. — We 
shall have occasion, as we proceed, to notice the very close 
resemblance between dreaming, somnambulism, mesmerism, 
and insanity, all,in fact, closely related to each other, char- 
acterized each and all by one and the same great law, and 
passing into each other by almost imperceptible gradations. 

Method proposed. — It will be to the purpose, first to 
describe the phenomena of somnambulism, then to inquire 
whether they can be accounted for. 

Description. — The principal phenomena of somnambulism 
are the following : The subject, while in a state of sound 
sleep, and perfectly unconscious of what he does, rises, 
walks about, finds his way over dangerous, and, at other 
times, inaccessible places, speaks and acts as if awake, per- 
forms in the dark, and with the eyes closed, or even band- 
aged, operations which require the closest attention and 
the best vision, perceives, indeed, things not visible to the 
eye in its ordinary waking state, perhaps even things absent 
and future, and when awakened from this state, is perfectly 
unconscious of what has happened, and astonished to find 
himself in some strange and unnatural position. 

An Instance narrated. — A case which fell under the ob- 
servation of the Archbishop of Bordeaux, when a student in 
the seminary, is narrated in the French Encyclopedia. A 
young minister, resident there, was a somnambulist, and to 
satisfy himself as to the nature of this strange disease, the 
Archbishop went every night into his room, after the young 
man was asleep. He would arise, take paper, pen, and ink, 
and proceed to the composition of sermons. Having written 
a page in a clear legible hand, he would read it aloud from 
top to bottom, with a clear voice and proper emphasis. If 
a passage did not please him, he would erase it, and write 
the correction, plainly, in its proper place, over the erased 
line or word. All this was done without any assistance from 
16 



'M)2 M 1 X D A S AFFECTED BY 

the eye, which was evidently asleep : a piece of pastehoarcl 
interposed between the eye and the paper produced no in- 
terruption or inconvenience. When his paper was exchanged 
for another of the same size, he was not aware of the change, 
but when a paper of a different size was substituted, he at 
once detected the difference. This shows that the sense of 
tact or feeling was active, and served as a guiding sense. 

Other Cases of a similar Nature. — Similar cases, almost 
without number, are on record, in which much the same 
phenomena are observed. In some instances it is remarked 
that the subject, having written a sentence on a page, re- 
turns, and carefully dots the i's, and crosses the t's. These 
phenomena are not confined to the night. Persons have 
fallen into the magnetic state, while in church, during 
divine service, have gone home with their eyes closed, care- 
fully avoiding obstacles in their way, as persons or carriages 
passing; and have been sent, in this state, of errands to 
places several miles distant, going and returning in safety. 

An amusing incident is on record of a gentleman who 
found that his hen-roost was the scene of nightly and alarm- 
ing depredations, which threatened the entire devastation 
of the premises, and what was strange, a large and faithful 
watch-dog gave no alarm. Determined to ascertain the true 
state of the case, he employed his servants to watch. Dur- 
ing the night the thief made his appearance, was caught, 
after much resistance, and proved to be i\\Q gentleman him- 
self, in a state of sound sleep, the author of all the mischief. 

A remarkable Instance. — Another case is also related, 
which presents some features quite remarkable. In a cer- 
tain school for young ladies, I think in France, prizas had 
been offered for the best paintings. Among the competitors 
was a young and timid girl who Avas conscious of her in- 
feriority in the art, yet strongly desirous of success. For a 
time she was quite dissatisfied with the progress of her work, 
but by and by began to notice, as she resumed her pencil in 
the morning, that something had been lulded to the work 



STATES OFTHE NERVOUS SYSTEM. ;>63 

since she last touched it. This was noticed for some time, 
and quite excited her curiosity. The additions were evi- 
dently by a superior hand, fur excelling her own in skill 
and workmanship. Her companions denied, each, and 
severally, all knowledge of the matter. She placed articles 
of furniture against her door in such a way that any one 
entering would be sure to awaken her. They were undis- 
turbed, but still the mysterious additions continued to be 
made. At last, her companions concluded to Avatch with- 
out, and make sure that no one entered her apartment dur- 
ing the night, but still the work went on. At length it 
occurred to them to watch her movements, and now tlie 
mystery was explained. They saw her, evidently in sound 
sleep, rise, dress, take her place at the table, and commence 
her work. It was her own hand that, unconsciously to her- 
self, had executed the work in a style which, in her waking 
moments, she could not approach, and which quite sur- 
passed all competition. The picture, notwithstanding her 
protestations that it was not her painting, took the prize. 

The duestion. — How is it now, that in a state of sleep, 
with the eye, probably, fast closed, and the room in dark- 
ness, this girl can use the pencil in a manner so superior to 
any thing that she can do in the day time, with her eyes 
open, and in the full possession and employment of her 
senses and her will ? 

Several Things to be accounted for. — Here are, in fact, 
several things to be accounted for. How is it that the som- 
nambulist rises and moves about in a state of apparently 
sound sleep ? How is it that she performs actions requir- 
ing often a high degree of intelligence, and yet without 
apparent consciousness ? How is it that she moves fear- 
lessly and safely, as is often the case, over places where she 
could not stand for a moment, in her waking state, without 
the greatest danger ? How is it that she can see without 
the eye, and perform actions in utter darkness, requiring 
the nicest attention, and the best vision, and not only do 



364 MIND AS AFFECTED BY 

them, but in such a manner as even to surpass what can be 
done by the same person in any other state, under the most 
favorable circumstances ? 

First, the Movement. — As to the first tiling — the move- 
ment and locomotion in sleep — it may be accounted for in 
two ways. We may sui)pose it to be wholly automatic. 
This is the view of some emiuent physiologists. The con- 
scious soul, they say, has nothing to do with it, no knowl- 
edge of it. The will has nothing more to do with it, than 
it has with the contraction of a muscle, or irritation in an 
amputated limb. 

Objection to this View. — For reasons intimated already, 
we cannot adopt the automatic theory. It seems to us sub- 
versive of all true science of the mind. The body is self- 
moved in obedience to the active energy of the nervous or- 
ganism, and this organism again, acts only as it is acted 
upon by the mind that animates, pervades, and controls that 
organism. In the waking state, this mental action, and the 
consequent nervous and muscular activity, are under the 
control of the will. In sleep, this control is, for the time, 
suspended, and the thoughts come and go as it may chance, 
subject to no law but that of the associative principle. The 
mind, however, is still active, and the thoughts are busy in 
their own spontaneous movement. To this movement, the 
brain and nervous system respond. That the brain itself 
thinks, that the nerves and muscles act, and the limbs move 
automatically, without the energizing activity of the mind, 
is a supposition purely gratuitous, inconsistent with all the 
known facts and evident indications of the case, and at war 
with all just notions of the relation of body and mind. 

Another Theory. — Another, and much more reasonable 
supposition is, that the will, which ordinarily in sleep loses 
control both over the mind and the body, in the state of 
somnambulism regains, in some way, and to some extent, 
its power over the latter, so that the body rises and moves 
about in accordance with the thought and feeling that hap- 



STATES OF THE KERVOUS SYSTEM. 365 

pen, at the moment, to be predominant in the mind. There 
is no control of the will over those thoughts and suggestions: 
they are spontaneous, undirected, casual, subject only to the 
ordinary laws of association ; but for the time, whether 
owing to the greater vividness and force of these suggestions 
and impressions, or to the disturbed and partially aroused 
state of the sensorial organism, the will, acting in accord- 
ance with these suggestions of the mind, so far regains its 
power over the bodily organism, that locomotion ensues. 
The dream is then simply acted out. The body rises, the 
hand resumes the pen, and the appropriate movements and 
actions corresponding to the conceptions of the mind in its 
dream, are duly performed. 

The second Point of Inquiry. — This virtually answers 
the second question, how the somnambulist can perform 
actions requiring intelligence, yet without apparent con- 
sciousness. 

There is, doubtless, consciousness at the time — there 
must be; the thought and feeling of the moment are 
known to us at the moment. Not to be conscious of 
thought and feeling, is, not to think and feel. That the 
acts thus performed are not subsequently remembered, is 
no evidence that they were not objects of consciousness at 
the time of theil' occurrence. This is absence of memory, 
and not of consciousness. 

Not* remembered. — Why they are not subsequently re- 
membered, we may, or may not, be able to explain. Not 
improbably, it may be owing to the partial inactivity of the 
senses, and the consequent failure to perceive the actual 
relations of the person to surrounding objects. But to 
whatever it may be owing, it does not prove that the mind 
is, for the time, unconscious of its own activity, for that is 
impossible. 

Third Question. — As to the third question, how the som- 
nambulist can safely move where the waking person can- 
not, as along the edge of precipices, and on the roofs of 



36G MIND AS AFFECTED BY 

houses, the explanation is simple and easy. Tlio eye is 
closed. The sense of touch is the only guide. Now the 
foot requires but a space of a few inches for its support ; 
that given, it knows nothing further, asks nothing beyond. 
It is the eye that informs us at other times of the danger 
beyond, and so creates, in fact, the present danger. You 
walk safely on a two-inch plank one foot from the gi'ound. 
The same effort of the muscles will enable you to walk the 
same plank one hundred feet from the ground, if you do 
not know the difference. This the somnambulist, with 
closed eye, and trusting to the sense of feeling alone, does 
not recognize. 

A Question still to be answered. — But the most difficult 
question remains. How is it that the sleep-walker in utter 
darkness, reads, writes, paints, runs, etc., better even than 
others can do, or even than he himself can do at other times 
and with open eyes. How can he do these things without 
seeing ? and how see in the dark and with the organs of 
vision fast locked in sleep. The facts are manifest. Not 
so ready the explanation. I can see how the body can move 
and with comparative safety, and even how the cerebral 
action may go on in sleep, without subsequent remem- 
brance. But to read, to write, to paint, to run swiftly 
when pursued through a dark cellar, without coming in 
contact with surrounding objects, are operations requiring 
the nicest power of vision, and how there can be vision 
without the use of the proper organ of vision, is not to me 
apparent. It does not answer this question to say that the 
action is automatic. That would account for one's seeing, 
but not wifhout eyes. The movement from place to place, 
according to the same theory, is also automatic ; that ac- 
counts for a ])erson's walking in sleep, but not for his walk- 
ing without legs. Nor does it solve the difficulty to say that 
in sleep the life of the soul is merged in that of the body ; 
doubtless, but how can the body see without the eye, or the 
eye without light? 



STATES OF THE ]S' E R V O U S SYSTEM. 367 

Theory of a general Sense. — The only theory that seems 
to ojffer even a plausible solution is that advanced by some 
German psychologists, and by Ranch in this country, of a 
general sense. The several special senses, they say, are all 
resolvable into one general sense as their source, viz., that 
of feehng. They refer us in illustration to the ear of the 
crab, to the eye of the fly and the snail, to the scent of flies, 
in which cases, respectively, we find no organ of hearing, or 
vision, or smell, but simply an expansion of the general 
nerve of sensation, or some filament from it, connecting 
with a somewhat thinner and more delicate membi'ane than 
the ordinary skin. This shows that our ordinary way of 
perceiving things is not the only way ; that special organs 
of vision, etc., are not needed in order to all perception, 
much less to sensation. It has been found by experiment 
that bats, after their eyes have been entirely removed, will 
fly about as before, and avoid all obstacles just as before. 
In these cases, it is contended, perception is merely feeling 
heightened, the exercise of the general sense into which the 
special senses are severally merged. And this, it is said, 
may be the case with the somnambulist. 

Remarks on this Theory. — There is doubtless truth in 
the general statement now advanced. I do not see, how- 
ever, that it accounts for all that requires explanation in 
the case. It explains, perhaps, how, without the organ of 
vision, a certain dim, confused perception of objects might 
be furnished by the general senses, but not for a clearer 
vision and a nicer operation than the waking eye can give. 
This, to me, remains yet unexplained. Is there an inner 
consciousness, a hidden soul-life not dependent on the 
bodily organization, which at times comes forth into de- 
velopment and manifests itself when the usual relations of 
body and soul are disturbed and suspended ? So some have 
supposed, and so it may be for aught we know to the con- 
trary, but this is only to solve one mystery by supposing 
another yet greater. 



308 MINI) AS AFFECTED BY 

Must admit what. — Whatever theory we adopt, or even 
if we adopt none, we must admit, I think, in view of the 
facts in the case, that in certain disordered and highly ex- 
cited states of the nervous system, as, e. g., when weakened 
by disease, so that ordinary causes affect it more powerfully 
than usual, it can, and does sometimes, perceive tvhat, nnder 
ordinary circumstances, is not perceptible to the eye, or to the 
ear ; nay, even dispenses with the use of eye and ear, and 
the several organs of special sense. Tliis occurs, as we have 
seen, in somnambulism, or natural magnetic sleep. We 
meet with the same thmg also in even stranger forms, in 
the mesmeric state, and in some species of insanity. 

The mental Process obvious. — So far as regards the purely 
mental part of the phenomena, the operations of the mind 
in somnambulism, there is nothing which is not easily ex- 
plained. In somnambulism, as indeed in all these states 
so closely connected — sleep, dreams, the mesmeric process, 
and even insanity — the will loses its controlling j^oiver over 
the train of thought, and, coiisequently, the thought or feel- 
ing that happens to he dominant gives rise to, and entirely 
shapes, the actions that may in that state he performed. 
This dominant thought or feeling, in the case of the som- 
nambulist, is, for the most part, probably, the result of 
previous causes ; a continuation of the former mental ac- 
tion, which, when the influence of the will is suspended 
and the senses closed, by a sort of inherent activity keeps 
on in the same channel as before. Of such action, the soul 
is itself probably conscious at the moment, but afterward 
no recollection of it lingers in the mind. 

S IV.-DISORDERED MENTAL ACTION. 

Relation to other mental Phenomena. — Closely allied to 
somnambulism, dreaming, etc., are certain forms of dis- 
ordered mental condition cojnmonly termed insanity; hav- 
ing this one element in common with the former, the loss 



STATES OF THE NERVOUS SYSTEM. 369 

or suspension of all voluntary control over the train of 
thought. This must be regarded as the characteristic fea- 
ture and essential ground-work of the various phenomena 
in all these various states. 

Classification. — The forms of disordered mental action 
are various, and admit of some classification. Some are 
transient, others permanent, arising from some settled dis- 
order of the intellect, or the sensibilities. 

I. Transient Forms. — Of these, some are artificially pro- 
duced, as by exciting drugs, stimulants, intoxicating drinks, 
etc., others by physical and natural causes, as disease, etc. 

Delirium, artificial. — The most common of these forms 
of disordered mental action is that transient and artificial 
state produced by intoxicating drugs and drinks. This is 
properly called delirium, and takes place whenever total or 
even partial inebriation occurs, whether from alcoholic or 
narcotic stimulants, as the opium of the Chinese, and the 
Indian hemp or hashish of the Hindoos. The same effects, 
substantially, are produced, also, by certain plants, as the 
deadly night-shade and others, and also by aconite. In all 
these cases the effect is wrought primarily, it would seem, 
upon the blood, which is brought into a poisonous state, and 
thus deranges the action of the nerves and the brain. The 
hashish or Indian hemp, which, in the East, is used for 
purposes of intoxication more generally, perhaps, than even 
opium, or alcoholic drinks, may serve as an illustration of 
the manner in which these various stimulants affect the 
senses. At first the subject perceives an increased activity 
of mind; thoughts come and go in swift succession and 
pleasing variety ; the imagination is active — memory, fancy, 
reason, all awake. Gradually this mental activity increases 
iind frees itself fro7n voluntary control ; attention to any 
special subject becomes difficult or even impossible; ideas, 
strange and wonderful, come and go at random with no appar- 
ent cause and by no known law of suggestiim; these absorb 
the attention until the mind is at last given up to them, and 
16* 



370 MIND AS AFFECTED BY 

there is no further consciousness of the external things, 
while, at the same time, the patient is susceptible, as in the 
magnetic state, of influence and impression from without. 
How closely, in many resi')ects, this resembles the state of 
the mind in somnambulism, mesmerism, and ordinary 
dreaming, I need not point out. The mental excitement 
produced by opium is ])erhaps greater, and the images that 
throng the brain, and assume the semblance of reality, are 
more numerous and real. The subsequent exhaustion and 
reaction in either case are fearful. For illustration of this 
the reader is referred to the Confessions of an Opium Eater, 
by the accomplished De Quincey. 

Delirium of Disease. — The ordinary delirium of disease 
is essentially of the same nature with that now described, 
differing rather in its origin, or producing cause, than in 
its effects. It comes on often in much the same way ; in- 
creased mental activity shows itself ; attention is fixed with 
difficulty ; strange images, and trains of thought at once 
singular and uncontrolled by the will, come and go ; the 
mind at last is possessed by them and loses all control over 
its own movements. Every thing now, which the mind 
conceives, assumes the form of reality. It has no longer 
conceptions but perceptions. Figures move along the walls 
and occupy the room. They are as really seen^ that is, the 
sensation is the same, as in any case of healthy and actual 
vision; only the effect is wrought from within outward, 
from the sensorium to the optic nerve and retina, instead of 
the reverse, as in actual vision. Voices are heard also, and 
various sounds, in the same manner ; the producing cause 
acting from within outward, and not from without in ,vard. 

Differs from Dreaming.— This state differs from dream- 
ing in that the subject is not necessarily asleep, and that it 
involves a greater and more serious disorder of the faculties, 
as well as of longer continuance. The illusions are perhaps 
also more decided, and more vividly conceived as external 
and real entities. Like dreams, and unlike the conceptions 



STATES OF THE NERVOUS SYSTEM. 371 

of the magnetic state, these ideas and illusions may be sub- 
sequently recalled, and in many cases are so ; the mind, 
however, finding it difficult still to believe that they were 
fictio7is^ and not actual occurrences. 

In dreaming, the things which we seem to see and hear 
are changes produced in the sensorium by cerebral or other 
influences. In delirium, the sensorium itself is disordered 
and produces false appearances, spectres, etc. 

Mania. — That form of disordered mental action termed 
mania, differs from that already described in that, along 
with the derangement of the intellect, there is more or less 
emotional disorder. The patient is strongly excited on any 
thing that at all rouses the feelings. There may be much 
or little intellectual derangement accompanying this ex- 
citement. The two forms, in fact, pass into each by a suc- 
cession of almost indefinable links. The main element is 
the same in each, i. e., loss of voluntary control over the 
thoughts and feelings. Each is produced by physical 
causes, and is of transient duration. 

Power of Suggestion, — In all these forms of delirium 
now described, whether artificial or natural, the mind is 
open to suggestions from without, and these become often 
controlling ideas. Hence it is of imperative necessity that 
the attendant should be on his guard as to what he says or 
does in the presence of the patient An instance in 23oint 
is related by Dr, Carpenter, in which a certain eminent 
physician lost a number of his patients in fever by their 
Jumping from the window, a fact accounted for at once, 
when we come to hear that he was stupid enough to caution 
the attendants, in the hearing of his patients, against the 
possibility of such an event. 

II. Permanent Forms, — I proceed next to notice those 
more permanent forms of mental disorder, commonly 
termed insanity, a term properly applied to designate 
those cases of abnormal mental activity in which there 
seems to be either some settled disorder of the intellect, as. 



372 MIND AS A F F E C L' K 1) U Y 

e. (/., when the hrain has been weakened by successive at- 
tacks of mania, epilepsy, etc., or else some permanent 
tendency to disordered emotional excitement. 

Disorder of the Intellect. — Where the intellectual facul- 
ties arc disordered, the chief elementary feature of the 
case is the same as in those already noticed, viz., Loss of 
voluntary control over the mental o/?6T«^iO«5-- the psycho- 
logical ground-work, as we have seen, of all the various 
forms of abnormal mental action which have as yet come 
under our notice. 

Memory affected. — In the cases now under considera- 
tion, the memory is the faculty that in most cases gives 
the first signs of failure, particularly that form of memory 
which is strictly voluntary, viz., recollection. In conse- 
quence of this, past experience is placed out of reach, can- 
not be made available, and therefore reasoning and judg- 
ment are deficient. The thoughts lose their coherency and 
connection, as they are thus cut loose from the fixtures of 
the past, to Avhich the laws of association no longer bind 
them ; they come and go with a strange automatic sort of 
movement, over which the mind feels that it has little 
power. Gradually this little fades away ; the will no longer 
exercises its former and rightful control over the mental 
activities ; its sway is broken, its authority gone ; the mind 
loses control of itself, and, like a vessel broken from her 
moorings, swings sadly and hopelessly away into the swift 
stream of settled insanity. The mind still retains its full 
measure of activity, perhaps greatly increased ; but it acts 
as in a dream. All its conceptions are realities to it, and 
the actually real world, as it mingles with the dream and 
shapes it, is but vaguely and imperfectly apprehended 
through the confused media of the mind's own concep- 
tions. All this may be, and often is, realized, Avhere there 
is entire absence of all emotional excitement. 

Not easily cured. — The condition now described is much 
less open to mcditMl hoatnwnt than the mental states pre- 



STATES OF THE NERVOUS SYSTEM. 373 

viously mentioned. Indeed, where there is insanity result- 
ing from settled cerebral disorder, there is very little hope 
of cure. Nature may in time recover herself ; she may 
not. This depends on age, constitution, predisposing 
causes, and a variety of circumstances not altogether under 
human control. 

Disordered Action of the Sensibilities. — Another form of 
insanity is that which consists in, or arises from, not any 
primary disorder of the intellectual faculties, but a tend- 
ency to disordered emotional excitement. Sometimes this 
is general, extending to all the emotions. These cases re- 
quire careful treatment. The patient is like a child, and 
must be governed mildly and wisely, is open to argument 
and motives of self-control. In other cases, some one emo- 
tion is particularly the seat and centre of the disturbance, 
while the others are comparatively tranquil. In such cases 
the exaggerated emotion may prompt to some specific ac- 
tion, as suicide, or murder, etc. This is termed impulsive 
insanit3^ The predominant idea or impulse tyrannizes over 
the mind, and, by a sort of irresistible fatality, drives it on 
to the commission of crime. The patient may be conscious 
of this impulse, and revolt from it with horror ; there may 
be no pleasure or desire associated with the deed, but he is 
unable to resist. He is hke a boat in the rapids of Niagara. 
So fearful the condition of man when reason is dethroned, 
and the will no longer master. 



MENTAL PHILOSOPHY 






DIVISION SECOND 



THE SENSIBILITIES 



THE SENSIBILITIES. 

PRELIMINARY TOPICS. 



CHAPTEH U 

NATURE, DIFFICULTY, AND IMPORTANCE OF THIS 
DEPARTMENT OF THE SCIENCE. 

Previous Analysis. — In entering upon the investigation 
of a new department of our science, it may be well to 
recur, for a moment, to the analysis and classification of 
the powers of the mind which has been already given in 
the introduction to the present vohime. The faculties 
of the mind were divided in that analysis, it will be re- 
membered, into three grand departments, the Intellect, 
the Sensibilities, and the Will ; the first comprising the 
various powers of thinking and hnowi^ig, the second of feel- 
ing, the third of willing. The first of these main divisions 
has been already discussed in the preceding pages. Upon 
the second we now enter. 

Diiference of the two Departments. — This department of 
mental activity differs from the former, as feeling differs 
from thinking. The distinction is broad and obvious. No 
one can mistake it who knows any thing of his own mental 
operations. Every one knows the difference, though not 
every one may be able to explain it, or tell precisely in what 
it consists. But whether able to define our meaning or not, 
we are perfectly conscious that to think and to feel are dif- 
ferent acts, and involve entirely different states of mind. 



378 THE SENSIBILITIES. 

The commou Lingiiage of life recognizes the distinction, 
alike that of the educated and of the uneducated, the 
peasant and the man of science. The literature of the 
world recognizes it. 

Relation of the two. — As regards the relation of the two 
departments to each other, the intellect properly precedes 
the sensibility. The latter implies the former, and depends 
upon it. There can be no feeling — I speak, of course, of 
mental feeling, and not of mere physical sensation — without 
previous cognizance of some object, in view of which the 
feeling is awakened. Affection always implies an object of 
affection, desire, an object of desire ; and the object is first 
apprehended by the intellect before the emotion is awakened 
in the mind. When we love, we love something, when we 
desire, we desire something, when we fear, or hope, or 
hate, there is always some object, more or less clearly defined, 
that awakens these feelings, and in proportion to the clear- 
ness and vividness of the intellectual conception or percep- 
tion of the object, Avill be the strength of the feeling. 

Strength of Feelings as related to Strength of Intellect. — 
The range and power of the sensibilities, then, in other 
words, the mind's capacity of feeling, depends essentially 
upon the range and vigor of the intellectual powers. Within 
certain limits, the one varies as the other. The man of 
strong and vigorous mind is capable of stronger emotion 
than the man of dwarfed and puny intellect. Milton, Crom- 
well, Napoleon, Webster, surpassed other men, not more in 
clearness and strength of intellectual perception, than in 
energy of feeling. In this, indeed, lay, in no small degree, 
the secret of their superior power. In the most eloquent 
passages of the great orators of ancient or modern times, it 
is not so much the irresistible cogency and unrelentinggrasp 
of the terrible logic, that holds our attention, and casts its 
spell over us, as it is the burning indignation that exposes 
the sophistries, and tears to shreds the fallacies of an oppo- 
nent, and sweeps all argument and all opposition before it, 



THE SEN^SIBILITIES. 379 

like a devouring fire. The orations of Deraostlienes, of 
Burke, of Webster, furnish numerous examples of this. 

Influence of the Feelings on the Intellect.— On the other 
hand, it is equally true that the state of the intellect in any 
case depends not a little on the nature and strength of the 
mind's capacities of^ feeling. A quick and lively sensibility 
is more likely to be attended with quickness and strength 
of intellectual conception ; imagination, perception, fancy, 
and even reasoning, are quickened, and set in active play, 
by its electric touch. 

A man with sluggish and torpid sensibilities, is almost 
of necessity a man of dull and sluggish intellect. A man 
without feeling, if w^e can conceive so strange a phenome- 
non, would be a man, the measure of whose intellectual 
capacity would be little above that of the brutes. 

Importance of this Department of the mental Faculties. 
— Such being the nature of the sensibilities, the importance 
of this department of mental activity becomes obvious at a 
glance. The springs of human action lie here. We find 
here a clue to the study of human nature and of ourselves. 
To understand the complicated and curious problem of hu- 
man life and action, to understand history, society, nations, 
ourselves, we must understand well the nature and philoso- 
phy of the sensibilities. Here we find the motives which 
set the busy world in action, the causes which go to make 
men what they are in the busy and ever changing scene of 
life's great drama. It is the emotions and passions of men 
which give, at once, the impulse, and the direction, to their 
energies, constitute their character, shape their history and 
their destiny. A knowledge of man and of the world is 
emphatically a knowledge of the human heart. 

Extract from Brown. — The importance of this part of 
our nature is well set forth in the following passage from 
Dr. Thomas Brown : 

" We might, perhaps, have been so constituted, with re- 
spect to our intellectual states of minc^ as to have had all the 



380 THE SENSIBILITIES. 

varieties of these, our remembrances, judgments, and crea- 
tions of fancy, without our emotions. But without the emo- 
tions which accompany them, of how little value would the 
mere intellectual functions have been ! It is to our vivid 
feelings of this class we must look for those tender regards 
which make our remembrances sacred, for that love of truth 
and glory, and mankind, without which to animate and re- 
ward us in our discovery and diffusion of knowledge, tlie 
continued exercise of judgment would be a fatigue rather 
than a satisfaction, and for all that delightful wonder which 
we feel when we contemplate the admirable creations of 
fancy, or the still more admirable beauties of the unfading 
model, that model which is ever before us, and the imita- 
tion of which, as has been truly said, is the only imitation 
that is itself origi^iality. By our other mental functions, 
we are mere spectators of the machinery of the universe, 
living and inanimate ; by our emoiionSy we are admirers of 
nature, lovers of man, adorers of God. * * * 

Less attractive Aspects. — "In this picture of» our emo- 
tions, however, I have presented them in their fairest as- 
pects; there are aspects which they assume, as terrible as 
these are attractive ; but even terrible as they are, they are 
not the less interesting objects of our contemplation. They 
are the enemies with which our mortal combat, in the war- 
fare of life, is to be carried on ; and of these enemies that 
are to assail us, it is good for us to know all the arms and 
all the arts with which we are to be assailed ; as it is good 
for us to know all the misery whicli would await our de- 
feat, as well as all tlie liapi)iness which would crown our 
success, that our conflict may be the stronger, and our 
victory, therefore, tlie more sure. 

" In the list of our emotions of this formidable class, is to 
be found every passion which can render life guilty and 
miserable; a single hour of Avhich, if that hour be an hour 
of uncontrolled dominion, may destroy happiness forever, 
and leave little more'of virtue than is necessary for giving 



THE SENSIBILITIES. 381 

all its horror to remorse. There are feelings as blasting to 
every desire of good that may still linger in the heart of the 
frail victim who is not yet wholly corrupted, as those poi- 
sonous gales of the desert, which not merely lift in whirl- 
winds the sands that have often been tossed before, but wither 
even the fev/ fresh leaves, which on some spot of scanty ver- 
dure, have still been flourishing amid the general sterility." 

Difficulty of the Study. — With regard to the difficulty 
attending the study of this part of our nature, a word seems 
necessary in passing. It has been supposed to constitute a 
peculiar difficulty in the way of the successful investigation 
of this department of mental activity, that the sensibilities 
are, in their very nature, of such an exciting character, as 
to preclude the calm, dispassionate observation and reflec- 
tion so necessary to correct judgment. At the moment of 
exercising any lively emotion, as hope, fear, anger, etc., the 
mind is in too great perturbation to be in any condition 
for accurate self-observation, and when the excitement has 
subsided, the important moment has already passed. Mr. 
Stewart has particularly noticed this difficulty in his Intro- 
duction to the Active and Moral powers, and quotes Hume 
to the same effect. 

Not peculiar to this Department of the Science. — The 
difficulty in question, however, is one which, in reality, 
pertains to all mental science, and not to this department 
of it alone ; and so Hume, in the passage cited by Mr. 
Stewart, seems to intend. It is true that while we are un- 
der the influence of any exciting emotion, we are in no 
mood, and in no suitable state to observe, with critical eye, 
the workings of our own minds ; neither are we in any con- 
dition to do so when engaged in the less exciting, but not 
less absorbing intellectual occupation of reasoning, or 
imagining, or remembering. The moment we begin to 
observe ourselves as thus engaged, the mind is no longer 
employed as before, the experiment which we wish to ob- 
serve is interrupted, and instead of reasoning, imagining, 



382 ANALYSIS AND CLASSIFICATION 

or remembering, we are only observing ourselves. Our only 
resource, in either case, is to turn back and gather up, as 
well as we can from memory, the data of our mental activity 
and condition while thus and thus employed. And tliis 
we can do with regard to the action of the sensibilities, as 
well as of the intellect, provided only the degree of emotion 
and excitement is not so great as to interfere with the 
present consciousness, and so yvith the subsequent recollec- 
tion of what was passing in our own minds. 

Sources of Information. — Nor are we dependent entirely 
on self-observation. Our sources of information are two- 
fold, the observation of our own minds, and of others. 
From the latter source we may learn much of the nature 
of this department of mental action. The sensibilities of 
others are more open to our insjDection, and less readily 
mistaken, than their intellectual states. Nor do we meet, 
in this case, with the same difficulty; for however ex- 
cited and incapable of self-inspection, at the moment, 
the subject of any strong emotion or passion may be, the 
spectator, at least, is able to observe the effect of that pas- 
sion, and note its phenomena, with calm and careful eye. 



CHAPTER H. 

ANALYSIS AND CUSSIFICATION OF THE 
SENSIBILITIES. 

Certain Distinctions may be noticed. — Including, under 
the term sensibility, according to the definition already 
given, whatever is of the nature of feeling^ in distinction 
from thought or cognition, and limiting the term also to 
feelings strictly mental, in distinction from merely physical 
sensation, it ia obvious that there are certain leading distinc- 
tions still to be observed in this class of our mental states, 
certain great and strongly marked divisions or differences. 



OF THE SENSIBILITIES. 383 

by which we shall do well to be guided in our arrangement 
and classification of them. Our feelings are many and va- 
rious; it is impossible to enumerate or classify them with 
perfect precision ; yet there are certain points of resem- 
blance and difference among them, certain groups or classes 
into- which they naturally divide themselves. 

A general Distinction indicated. — One general distinction 
lies at the outset, patent and obvious, running through all 
forms and modes of sensibility, namely, the difference of 
agreeable and disagreeable. Every feeling is, in its very 
nature, and of necessity, one or the other, either pleasing 
or painful. In some cases the distinction is much more 
strongly marked than in others; sometimes it may be 
hardly perceptible, and it may be difficult to determine, so 
slight is the degree of either, whether the feeling under 
consideration partakes of the character of pleasure or pain ; 
sometimes there is a blending of the two elements, and the 
same emotion is at once pleasing and painful to the mind 
that experiences it. But I cannot conceive of a feeling that 
is neither agreeable nor disagreeable, but positively indiffer- 
ent. The state of indifference is not an exercise of sensi- 
bility, but a simple luant of it, as the very name denotes 
by which we most appropriately express this state of mind, 
i, e., apathy (a naOog), 

Simple Emotions. — Passing this general and obvious dis- 
tinction, we find among our sensibilities a large class which 
we may denominate simple emotions. These comprise the 
joys and sorrows of life in all their varieties of modification 
and degree, according as the objects which awaken them 
differ. Under this class fall those general states of the mind 
which, without assuming a definite and obvious form, impart 
a tinge and coloring of joyousness or sadness to all our ac- 
tivity. Under this class, also, must be included the more 
specific forms of feeling, such as the grief or sorrow we feel 
at the loss of friends, sympathy with the happiness or sorrow 
of others, the enjoyment arising from the contemplation or 



384 ANALYSIS AND CLASSIFICATION 

persuasion of our own supenority, and tlie chagrin of the 
reverse, the enjoyment of the hidicrous, of the new and 
wonderful, of the beautiful, to which must be added the 
satisfaction resulting from the consciousness of right action, 
and those vivid feelings of regret in view of the wrong, wliicli, 
in their higher degree, assume the name of remorse, and Jail 
like a chill and fearful shadow over the troubled path of 
earthly life. These all are simple emotions, and all, more- 
over, are but so many forms of joy and sorrow, varying as 
the objects vary which give rise to them. 

Further Difference of instinctive and rational Emotion. 
— It will be observed, however, that of these several speci- 
fic forms of simple emotion, some are of a higher order than 
the others. Such are those last named in the series, the 
feelings awakened in view of the ludicrous, in view of the 
new and wonderful, in view of the beautiful, and in view 
of the right, or, in general, the aesthetic and moral emo- 
tions. Those, as seeming to possess a higher dignity, and 
to involve a higher degree of intellectual development, we 
may denominate the rational, in distinction from the other 
simple emotions, which, to mark the difference, we may 
term instinctive. 

Emotions of a complex Character. — Passing on in our 
analysis, we come next to a class of emotions differing from 
that already considered, in being of a complex character. 
It is no longer a simple feeling of deligb.t and satisfaction 
in the object, or the reverse, but along with this is blended 
the wish, more or less definite and intense, of good or ill, to 
the object which awakens the emotion. The feeling as- 
sumes an active form, becomes objective, and travels out 
from itself and the bosom that cherishes it, to the object 
which calls it forth. In this desire of good or ill to the 
object, the simple element of joy or sorrow, the subjective 
feeling, is often merged and lost sight of ; yet it ever exists 
as an essential element of the complex emotion. 



OF THESENSIBILIT.T ES. 385 

Further Subdivision of this Class. — Of this class are the 
feelings usually denominated affections, which may be fur- 
ther subdivided into 'benevolent and malevolent, according 
as they seek the good or the ill of their respective objects. 
As the simple emotions are all but so many modes and 
forms of the feeling of joy, and its opposite, sorrow, so 
the affections are but so many different modifications of 
the one comprehensive principle of love, and its opposite, 
hate. 

Various Objects of Affection. — The affections vary as the 
objects vary on which they rest. Of the benevolent class, 
the more prominent are, love of kindred, of friends, of 
benefactors, of home and country. Of the malevolent 
affections, so called, the more Important are the feeling of 
resentment in view of personal injury, of indignation at the 
wrongs of others, the feeling of jealousy, and the like. 

The Passions. — These various affections, both malevolent 
and benevolent, when they rise above the ordinary degree, 
and become impatient of restraint, imperious, no longer 
under the control of reason and sober reflection, but them- 
selves assuming the command of the whole man, and im- 
pelling him toward the desired end, regardless of other and 
higher interests, become the passions of our nature, with 
which no small part of the self-conflict and self -discipline 
of this our mortal life is to be maintained. 

The Desires. — There is still another class of emotions, 
differing essentially in their nature from each of the two 
leading divisions already mentioned, that is, our desires. 
These are of two sorts. Those v/hich are founded in the 
physical nature and constitution of man — as the desire of 
food, of muscular exertion, of repose, of whatever is adapted 
to the animal nature and wants — are usually denominated 
appetites: those, on the other hand, which take their rise 
from the nature and wants of the mind, rather than of the 
body, may be termed rational, in distinction from animal 
desires or appetites. Of these the most important are the 



380 ANALYSIS AND CLASSIFICATION, 

desire of happiness, of knowledge, of power, of society, of 
the esteem of others. 

As joy has its opposite, sorrow, and love its opposite, hate, 
so also desire has its opposite, aversion ; and the objects of 
aversion are as numerous as the objects of desire. The de- 
sire of wealth has its counterpart, the aversion to poverty 
and want ; the desire of life and happiness stands over 
against the aversion to suffering and death. Tlie two are, 
so to speak, the positive and negative poles of feehng. 

Hope and Fear. — There is yet another and important 
class of our emotions, having not a little to do with the 
happiness or misery of life, casting its lights and shadows 
over no small part of our little path from the cradle to the 
grave, our hopes and our fears. These, however important 
in themselves, are, nevertheless, but modifications of the 
principles of desire and aversion, and are, therefore, to be 
referred to the same general division of the sensibilities. 
Hope is the desire of some expected good, fear the aversion 
to some anticipated evil. 

Summary of Classes. — To the three comprehensive classes 
now named, Simple Emotions, Affections, and Desires, may 
be referred, if I mistake not, the various sensibilities of our 
nature ; or, it the analysis and classification be not com- 
plete and exhaustive, it is at least sufficiently minute for 
our present purpose. 



HISTORICAL SKETCH OF THE LEADING DIVISIONS 
OF THE SENSIBILITIES ADOPTED BY DIFFERENT 
WRITERS. 

Important to know the Principles of Division adopted 
by others. — The discussion of the present topic would be 
incomplete without a glance at the history of the same. It 
is of service, having obtained some definite results and con- 
clusions of our own, to know also what have been the views 
and conclusions of others upon the same matter. As witli 



OF THE SEKSIBILITIES. 387 

regard to the intellectual powers, so also with respect to the 
sensibilities, different principles of division and classification 
have been adopted by different writers. Our limits will allow 
us to glance only at the more important of these. 

General Principles of Classification. — Of those who have 
written upon the ' sensibilities, some have placed them in 
contrast to each other, as hope and fear, love and hate, etc., 
making this the principle of division ; others have classed 
them as personal, social, etc. ; others as relating to time, 
the past, the present, and the future ; others as instinctive 
and rational : while most who have had occasion to treat 
of this part of our mental constitution, have considered it 
with reference solely or mainly to the science of ethics or 
morals, and have adopted such a division and arrangement 
as best suited that end, without special regard to the psy- 
chology of the matter. 

Of the Greek Schools. — Among the Greeks, the Acade- 
micians included the various emotions under the four prin- 
cipal ones, fear, desire, joy, and grief, classing despair and 
aversion under grief, while hope, courage, and anger were 
comprised under desire. 

To denote the passivity of the mind, as acted upon, and 
under the influence of emotion, the G-reeks named the pas- 
sions in general, TcdOog, suffering, whence our terms pathos, 
pathetic, etc., whence also the Latin passio und. patior, from 
which our word passion. The Stoics, in particular, desig- 
nated all emotions as ndOrj, diseases, regarding them as dis- 
orders of the mind. 

Hartley's Division. — Among the moderns. Hartley di- 
vides the sensibilities into the two leading classes of grate- 
fid and ungrateful ones ; under the former, including love, 
desire, hope, joy, and pleasing recollection ; under the lat- 
ter, the opposites of these emotions, hatred, aversion, fear, 
grief, displeasing recollection. 

Distinction of primitive and derivative. — Certain other 
English writers, as Watts and Grove, derive all the emotions 



388 ANALYSIS AND CLASSIFICATION 

ultimately from the three principal ones, admiration, love, 
and hatred, which they term the primitive passions, all 
others being derivative. 

Division of Cogan, — Cogan, whose treatise on the pas- 
sions is a work uf much interest, divides the sensibilities 
mto passionSy emotions, and affections; by the jfirst of these 
terms designating tiie first impression which the mind re- 
ceives from some impulsive cause ; by the second, the more 
permanent feeling which succeeds, and which betrays itself 
by visible signs in the expressions of the countenance and 
the motions of the body; while by affections, he denotes 
the less intense and more durable influence exerted upon 
the mind by the objects of its regard. The passions and 
affections are, by this author, further divided into those 
which spring from self-love and those which are derived 
from the social principle. 

Classification of Dr. Reid. — Dr. Reid divides the active 
principles, as he terms them, into three classes, the meclian- 
icaL the animal, and the rational, including, under the tirst, 
our instincts and habits, under the second, our apj>etites, 
under the third, our higher principles of action. 

Of Stewart. — Dugald Stewart makes two classes, the in- 
stiactive or implanted, and the rational or governing prin- 
ciples, under the former including appetites, desires, and 
affections, tinder the latter, self-love and the moral faculty. 
The desires are distinguislied from the appetites, in that 
they do not, like the former, take their rise from the body, 
nor do they operate, periodically, after certain intervals, 
and cease after the attainment of their object. Under the 
title of affections, are comprehended all those principles of 
our nature that have for their object the communication 
of good or of ill to others. 

Of Brown. — Br. Brown divides the sensibilities, to which 
he gives the general name of emotions, with reference to 
their relation to time, as immediate, retrospective, and pro- 
spective. Under the former, he includes, as involving no 



OE THE SENSIBILITIES. 389 

moral feeling, cheerfulness and melanclioly, wonder and its 
opposite, feelings of beauty and the opposite, feelings of sub- 
limity and of the ludicrous ; as involving moral feeling, the 
emotions distinctive of vice and virtue, emotions of love and 
hate, of sympathy, of pride and humility. Under retrospec- 
tive emotion he includes anger, gratitude, regret, satisfac- 
tion ; under prospective emotion, all our desires and fears. 

Of Prof. Upham. — Prof. TJpham divides the sensibilities 
into the two leading departments, the natural and the 
moral; the former comprehending the emotions and the 
desires, the latter, the moral sentiments or conscience. 
Under the class of desires, he includes our instincts, ap- 
petites, propensities, and affections. 

Of Hickok. — Dr. Hickok classes the sensibilities under 
the departments of animal, rational, and spiritual suscep- 
tibility; the former comprehending instincts, appetites, 
natural affections, self-interested feelings, and disinterested 
feelings ; the second, sesthetic, scientific, ethic, and theistic 
emotions; while the latter or spiritual susceptibility differs 
from each of the others, in not being, like them, constitu- 
tional, but arising rather from the personal disposition and 
character. 

Semarks on the foregoing Divisions.— Our limits forbid, 
nor does the object of the present work require, a critical 
discussion of these several plans of arrangement. 

It is but justice to say, however, that no one of these 
several methods of arrangement is altogether satisfactory. 
They are not strictly scientific. The method of Cogan, for 
example, derives all our sensibilities ultimately from ihQ two 
principles of self-love, or desire for our own happiness, and 
the social principle, or regard for the condition and character 
of others; which again resolve themselves, according to this 
author, into the two cardinal and primitive affections of love 
and hate. This division strikes us at once as arbitrary, and, 
therefore, questionable; and, also, as ethical rather than 
psychological. There are many simple emotions which can- 



390 ANALYSIS AND CLASSIFICATION 

not properly be resolved into either of these two principles. 
On the other hand, the psychological distinction between 
the emotions and desires is overlooked in this arrangement. 
The same remarks apply snbstantially to several of the other 
methods noticed. 

Objection to Stewart's Division. — The arrangement ol' 
]Mr. Stewart is lii^ble to this objection, that the principle ot* 
self-love, and also the moral lacult}^ which he classes by 
themselves as rational principles, in distinction from the 
other emotions as implanted or instinctive principles, are as 
really implanted in our nature, as really constitutional or 
instinctive," as any other. Appetite, moreover, is but one 
form or class of desires; self-love is but another, i.^e., the 
desire of our own happiness. 

To Upham's Division. — The division of Mr. Upham is 
still more objectionable on the same ground. The natural 
and the moral sentiments, into which two great classes he 
divides the sensibilities, are distinct neither in fact nor in 
name ; the moral sentiments, so called, are as really and 
truly natnral, founded in our constitution, as are our de- 
sires and aficctions ; nor is the term natural properly 
opposed to the term moral as designating distinct and 
opposite things. The terms instinctive and rational, which 
Mr. Htewart employs, though not free from objection, much 
more accurately express the distinction in view, could such 
a distinction be shown to exist. 

Difference of ethical and psychological Inquiry.— In a 
work, the main object of which is to nnfold the principles 
of ethical science, it may be desirable to single out from the 
other emotions, and place by themselves, the principle of 
self-love, together with the social principle and the niornl 
sentiments, as having more direct reference to the monil 
character and conduct. In a strictly psychological treatise, 
however, in which the aim is simply to unfold, and arrange 
in their natural order, the ])hen()mena of the human mind, 
such a principle of classification is evidently inadmissible. 



OF THE SENSIBILITIES. 391 

The different operations and emotions of the mind must 
be studied and arranged, not with reference to their logical 
or ethical distinctions, but solely their psychological differ- 
ences. Viewed in this light, the moral sentiments, so far 
as they are of the nature of feeling or sensibility at all, and 
not rather of intellectual perception, are simple emotions, 
and do not inherently differ from any other feelings of the 
same class. The satisfaction we feel in view of right, and 
the pain in view of wrong past conduct, differ from tlio 
pain and pleasure we derive from other sources, only as the 
objects differ which call forth the feelings. They are essen- 
tially of the same class, the difference is specific rather than 
generic. They are modifications of the one generic princi- 
ple of joy and sorrow, and differ from each other not so 
much as each differs from a desire, or an affection of love 
or hate. 

Objection to Brown's Arrangement. — The classification 
of Dr. Brown, if not ethical, is, perhaps, equally far from 
being psychological. Tlie relation of the different emo- 
tions to time is an accidental, and not an essential differ- 
ence, and it is, moreover, a distinction wholly inapplicable 
to far the larger portion of the sensibilities, viz., those which 
he calls immediate emotions, or *^Hhose which arise without 
involving necessarily any notio7i of time." This is surely 
Incus a non lucendo. 



SENSIBILITIES 



<m>- 



PART FIRST, 



SIMPLE EMOTIONS 



SIMPLE EMOTIONS 



CHAPTEH U 

INSTINCTIVE EMOTIONS. 



Previous Analysis. — It will be recollected that in the 
analysis which has been given of the sensibilities, they 
were arranged under three generic classes, viz., Simple 
Emotions, Affections, and Desires, all, however, having 
this in common, that they are in themselves agreeable or 
disagreeable, as states of mind, according as the object 
which awakens them is viewed as either good or evil. 

Nature of simple Emotions. — Of these, the simple emo- 
tions, which are first to be considered, comprise, it will be 
remembered, that large class of feelings which, in their 
various modifications and degrees, constitute the joys and 
sorrows of life. They may be comprised, with some lati- 
tude of meaning, under the general terms of joy and sor- 
row, as modifications of that comprehensive principle or 
phase of human experience. They are awakened in view 
of an object regarded as good or as evil ; an object, more- 
over, of present possession and present enjoyment or suffer- 
ing ; in which last respect they differ from desires, which 
have respect always to some good, or apparent good, not in 
present possession, but viewed as attainable. 

Division of simple Emotions. — Of these simple emotions, 
again, some may be called instinctive, as belonging to the 
animal nature, and, to some extent, common to man with 
the brutes, in distinction from others of a higher order. 



396 INSTINCTIVE EMOTIONS. 

involving or presupposing the exercise of reason and the 
reflective powers. 

It is of the former class that we are to treat in the pres- 
ent chapter. 

§ I- OF THAT GENERAL STATE OF THE MIND 
KNOWN AS CHEERFULNESS; AND ITS OPPOSITE. 
MELANCHOLY. 

Nature of this Feeling. — There is a state of mind, of 
which every one is at times conscious, in which, without 
any immediately exciting cause, a general liveliness and 
joyousness of spirit, seldom rising to the definiteness of a 
distinct emotion, a subdued under-current of gladness, 
seems to fill the soul, and flow on through all its channels. 
It is not so much itself joy, as a disposition to be joyful ; 
not so much itself a visible sun in the heavens, as a mild, 
gently-diffused light filling the sky, and bathing all objects 
in its serene loveliness and beauty. It has been well termed 
'*a sort of perpetual gladness." 

Prevalence at different Periods of Life. — There are those, 
of fortunate temperament, with whom this seems to be the 
prevailing disposition, to wliom every thing wears a cheerful 
and sunny aspect. Of others, the reverse is true. In early 
life this habitual joyousness of si^irit is more commonly prev- 
alent ; in advanced years, more rarely met with. Whether 
it be that age has chilled the blood, or that the sober ex- 
perience of life has saddened the heart, and corrected the 
more romantic visions of earlier years, as life passes on we 
are less habitually under the influence of this disposition. 
It is no longer the prevailing frame of the mind. In the 
beautiful language of another ** We are not happy, without 
knowing why we are hajipy, and though we may still be sus- 
ceptible of joy, perhaps as intense, or even more intense, 
than in our years of unreflecting merriment, our joy must 
arise from a cause of corresponding importance ; yet even 
down to the close of extreme old age there still i-ecur occa- 



INSTINCTIVE EMOTIONS. 397 

sionally some gleams of this almost instinctive happiness, 
like a vision of other years, or like those brilliant and un- 
expected coruscations which sometimes flash along the 
midnight of a wintry sky, and of which we are too ignorant 
of the circumstances that produce them, to know when to 
predict their return." 

The opposite Feeling. — Correspondmg to this general 
state of mind now described, is one of quite the opposite 
character — that habitual disposition to sadness which is 
usually called melancholy. Like its opposite, cheerfulness, 
it is rather a frame of mind than a positive emotion, and, 
like its opposite, it exists, often, without any marked and 
definite cause to which we can attribute it. It is that state 
in which subsiding grief, or the pressure of any severe 
calamity now passing away, leaves the mind, the grey and 
solemn twilight that succeeds a partial or total eclipse. It 
is, with many persons, the habitual state of mind, through 
long periods, perhaps even the greater part, of life. Not 
unfrequently it occurs that minds, of the rarest genius and 
most delicate sensibility, are subject to that extreme and 
habitual depression of spirits which casts a deep gloom over 
the brightest objects, and renders life itself a burden. This 
state of habitual gloom and despondency, itself usually a 
form of disease, the result of some physical derangement, 
deepens sometimes into a fixed and permanent disorder of 
the mmd, and constitutes one of the most pitiable and 
hopeless forms of insanity. Such was the case with the 
melancholy, but most amiable and gentle Cowper. 

Element of poetic Sensibility. — In its milder forms, the 
state of mind which I describe, constitutes, not unfre- 
quently, an element of what is termed poetic genius, a 
melancholy arising from some sad experience of the troubles 
and conflicts of life, and from sympathy with the suffering 
and sorrowing world, the great sad heart of humanity — a 
melancholy that, like the plaint of the ^olian harp, lends 
sweetness and richness to the music of its strain. Such are 



398 INSTINCTIVE EMOTIONS. 

many of the strains of Tennyson ; such the deep under- 
current of Milton's poetry ; such, preeminently, the spirit 
and tone of John Foster, one of the truest and noblest 
specimens of poetic genius, although a writer of prose. A 
quick and lively sensibility, itself an inseparable concom- 
itant of true genius, is not unfrequently accompanied with 
this gentler form of melancholy. The truly great soul that 
communes with itself, with nature, and with eternal truth, 
is no stranger to this subdued yet pleasing sadness. It is 
this to which Milton pays beautiful tribute in the II Pen- 
serosOy and which he thus invokes : 

" But bail, thou goddess, sage and holy, 
Hail, diviuest Melancholy ! 
Come, pensive nun, devout and pure, 
Sober, steadfast, and demure, 
All in a robe of darkest grain 
Flowing with majestic train, 
And sable stole of Cyprus lawn 
Over thy decent shoulders drawn. 
Come, but keep thy wonted state, 
With even step and musing gait, 
And looks commercing with the skies, 
Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes." 

Not inconsistent with Wit. — It should be remarked that 
the disposition of which we speak is not inconsistent with 
the occasional and even frequent prevalence of feelings of 
directly the opposite nature. A prevailing tendency to sad- 
ness is not unfrequently associated with an almost equally 
prevailing tendency to emotions of the ludicrous. The same 
liveliness of sensibility which prepares the soul to feel keenly 
whatever in life is adapted to awaken sad and sober reflec- 
tions, also disposes it to notice quickly tlie little incongru- 
ities of character, the foibles and the follies of mankind, in 
which a duller eye would detect nothing absurd or comical. 
It is, moreover, the natural tendency of the mind to spring 
back, like the bow unstrung, from one extreme of feeling 



INSTIiTCTIVE EMOTIOis^S. 399 

to its opposite, and seek relief from its sadness in tlie lighter 
sallies of wit. And so we have the melancholy Cowper 
singing John Gilpin, and the author of the Night Thoughts, 
in conversation, a jovial and witty man. 

§ II.-SORROW AT LOSS OF FRIENDS. 

Differs from Melancholy. — Beside the general states of 
mind already described, and which can hardly be called 
distinct emotions, there are certain specific forms of joy 
and sorrow which claim our attention. Prominent among 
these is the grief we feel at any great and sudden bereave- 
ment or calamity, as, for example, the loss of friends. This 
is a state of mind closely allied, indeed, to the melancholy 
of which I have spoken, but differs from it in that it springs 
from a more obvious and immediate cause, and is at once 
more definite and more intense. After a time, when the 
first bitterness of anguish is past, and the mind recovers 
itself in a measure from the violence of the shock it has 
received, and which, for the time, like a sudden blow, 
seemed to stagger all its energies, when other causes begin 
to operate, and other scenes and cares demand its atten- 
tion, its sorrow, at first violent and irrepressible, gradually 
subsides into that calmer but more permanent form which 
we have already described as melancholy. 

Effects of Grief upon the Mind in the first Shock of any 
Calamity. — When the loss is very great, especially if it 
comes suddenly to us — and what bereavement, however long 
anticipated and feared, does not at last overtake us sud- 
denly?— the mind is at first, in a manner, stupefied and 
amazed, unable to realize its loss, and looks helplessly about 
it for relief. To this succeeds a state of mental anguish, 
more or less intense, in proportion to the liveliness of the 
sensibilities, and the strength of the previous attachment. 
In many cases the sorrow is uncontrollable, and finds relief 
in tears, or in those more violent expressions of anguish in 



400 I N S T I N CTl V K E il T 1 N S . 

which the burdoned heart of man in all agos has been wont 
to indicate its grief, as the rending of the garments, the 
beating of the breast, the tearing of the hair, and other like 
demonstrations of utter and hopeless sorrow. The mind 
in such a state resigns itself passively to the violence of its 
emotion, and is swept on by the rushing current that over- 
flows its banks. It is Kachel mourning for her children, 
and refusing to be comforted. It is David going to the 
chamber over the gate, and exclaiming, as he goes, *'0 
Absalom, my son ! my son ! " 

Subsequent State of Mind. — When the first violence of 
grief has subsided, and reflection succeeds to passion, the 
mind begins to recall the circumstances of its loss, and sets 
itself to comprehend the greatness and reality of the calam- 
ity that has befallen it. It dwells with interest and satisfac- 
tion on all the w^orth and virtues of the departed, magnifies 
all that was good, excuses or overlooks all that was faulty, 
recall] the words, the tones, the looks, and gathers up the 
slightest memento of the former history, with the same 
sacred regard and reverence with which it treasures in the 
funeral urn the ashes of the dead. Asacredness and dignity 
invest the character, and the life, when once the angel 
death has set his seal upon them. 

Silence of deep Grief. — The deepest sorrow is not always, 
perhaps not usually, the most violent and demonstrative. 
It is wlien the first sudden passion of grief is passed and 
the soul retires within herself to meditate upon her loss, 
calmly gathering her mantle about her to hide from the ob- 
servation of others those tears and that sorrow which are sa- 
cred, it is then that the deepest sorrow, and the heaviest dark- 
ness gather about the burdened spirit. The truest, deepest 
grief is ever silent. It shrinks from human observation. It 
finds no words for expression, wishes none. It is a veiled 
and silent goddess, whose rites and altars are hidden from 
the eye of day. It is the nature of joy to communicate it- 
self. It is the nature of sorrow, whatever may be the occa- 



IKSTINCTIYE EMOTIONS. 401 

sion whence it springs, to retire within itself. It seeks its 
chamber that it may weep there. 

Effect of Time in assuaging Sorrow. — The effect of time 
in softening and allaying the violence of grief, is known to 
every one. The manner in which this effect is produced is 
worthy of attention. A recurrence to the laws of sugges- 
tion may explain this. It will be recollected that among 
the secondary or subjective laws which regulate the sugges- 
tion of our thoughts, the interval of time which has elapsed 
since the occurrence of any event holds an important place. 
That which has taken place but recently is more likely to 
recur again to mind than events of remoter date. On the 
first occurrence of any calamity, or bereavement, every thing 
tends to remind us of our loss, and this constant suggestion 
of it has a powerful effect in keeping alive our sorrow. As 
time passes on, however, the objects which once suggested 
'only that which we had lost, become associated with, and 
so suggest other objects and occurrences ; or, if they still 
remind us of our loss, the remembrance is mingled with 
that of other scenes and events which have since transpired, 
and other feelings which have since agitated our hearts. 
Thus time is constantly mingling other ingredients in the 
cup of our grief. The law of the most recent still holds in 
suggestion, and thus the very principle that formerly re- 
minded us continually of our loss, now shuts it out, by in- 
terposing between it and us what has since transpired. The 
thought of the past comes up less frequently, and when it 
recurs, is mingled with so many other associated objects, 
and experiences, that it no longer awakens emotions of un- 
mitigated grief. Gradually other objects interest us, other 
plans and duties engage us, other emotions agitate the 
heart, as successive waves beat on the same troubled shore, 
and render fainter, at each return, the traces which former 
billows had impressed upon its sands. 

Thus time, the great consoler, assuages our sorrows, and 
the unbroken darkness that once hung over the mind, and 



402 INSTINCTIVE EMOTI)NS. 

shrouded all its thoughts and purposes, gives place, at 
length, to a chastened and subdued sadness, that suffuses 
the past with a soft and mellow radiance. We are ever 
moving on, swiftly, steadily, in the cuiTcnt of events, and 
objects whose fearful magnitude, once, from their very near- 
ness, engrossed our whole attention as we passed into their 
deep shadow, gradually diminish as they recede, until their 
dark outline is barely discernible on the distant horizon. , 

§ III.-SYMPATHY WITH THE HAPPINESS AND 
SORROW OF OTHERS. 

In what Manner awakened. — Closely allied to the emo- 
tions of joy and sorrow awakened by our own personal ex- 
perience of good and of evil, is the sympathy we feel with 
the joys and sorrows of others in similar circumstances. 
Joy is contagious. So also is grief. "We cannot behold the 
emotions of others, without, in some degree, experiencing 
a corresponding emotion. Nor is it necessary to be eye- 
witnesses of that happiness, or sorrow. The simple de- 
scription of any scene of haj^piness or of misery affects the 
heart, and touches the chords of sympathetic emotion. We 
picture the scene to ourselves, we fancy ourselves the spec- 
tators, or, it may be, the actors and the sufferers; we 
imagine what would be our own emotions in such a case, 
and in proportion to the liveliness of our power of concep- 
tion, and also of our power of feeling, will he our sympathy 
with the real scene and the real sufferers. 

Nature of this Principle. — The sympathy thus awakened, 
whether with the joy or the sorrow of others, is a simple 
emotion, distinct in its nature from both the affections 
and the desires, audit is, moreover, instinctive, rather than 
rational — a matter of im})ulse, a ])rinciple implanted in our 
nature, and springing into exercise, as by instinct, whenever 
the occasion presents itself, rather than the result of reason 
and reflection. It is a susceptibility which we possess, to 
some extent, at least, in common with the brutes, who are 



IKSTIKCTIVE EMOTIONS. 403 

by FiO means insensible to tbe distresses or to the happiness 
of their fellows. It is a susceptibility which manifests itself 
in early life, before habits of reflection are formed, and under 
circumstances which preclude the supposition that it may be 
the result of education, or in any manner an acquired and 
not an original and implanted principle. So far from being 
the result of reflection, reason and reflection are often needed 
to check the emotion, and keep it within due bounds. There 
are times when sympathy, for example, Avith the distresses 
of others, would stand in the way of efficient and necessary 
action, aud when it is needful to summon all the resources 
of reason to our aid, in the stern and resolute performance 
of a duty which brings us into conflict with this instinctive 
principle of our nature. The judge is not at liberty to re- 
gard tlie tears of the heart-broken wife or child, when he 
rises to pronounce the stern sentence of violated law upon 
the wretched criminal. The kind-hearted surgeon must for 
the time be deaf to the outcries of his patient, and insensi- 
ble to his suflerings, or his ministrations are at an end. 

Usual Limitation of the Term. — The term sympathy is 
more frequently used to denote the emotion awakened by 
the sufferings of others, than our participation in their 3*03^8. 
There can be no doubt, however, of the tendency of our 
nature to each of these results, and that it is, in fact, but 
one and the same princijole under a twofold aspect. ISTor 
does the word itself more properly belong to, and more 
truly express, the one, than the other of these aspects. 
We as readily rejoice with those who do rejoice, as we weep 
with those who weep, and in either case our feeling is sym- 
patJiy {avv irddog). 

This Limitation accounted for. — The reason v*hy the 
term is more frequently applied to denote participation in 
the sorrows of others, is obvious on a little reflection. Such, 
and so benevolent, are the arrangements of a kind Provi- 
dence, that happiness is the prevalent law of being, and sor- 
row the exception to that general rule. It is diffused as 



40 1 INSTINCTIVE EMOTIONS. 

the sunshine, and the gentle air,over all things that breathe, 
and even inanimate objects, by a sort of sympathetic glad- 
ncsi, reflected from our own minds, seem to share in the 
general joy. Calamity and son'ow, at least in their more 
mari^ed and definite forms, come, like storm and tempest 
in nature, more seldom, and, when they do occur, are the 
more remarkable and stand ont more impressively from the 
common experience of life, from tlieir very rarity. 

More Need of Sympathy with Sorrow. — There is doubt- 
less, also, more occasion for sympathy with the sorrows of 
others, when those sorrows do occur, than with their joys, 
and this may be another reason for the more frequent use 
of the term in this connection. Sorrow needs sympathy, a^ 
jo}^ does not. It leans for support on some helping and 
friendly arm. Joy is, in its nature, strong and self-sustain- 
ing, sorrow the reverse. It is a v.ise and kind pro\'ision of 
the Author of our nature, by which there is implanted in 
our constitution an instinctiye sympathy with sorrow and 
suffering in all their forms, even when we ourselves are not 
directly the objects on which the calami t}^ falls. 

Remark of Dr. Brown. — It is well remarked by Dr. Brown 
that *'we seem to sympathize less with the pleasures of 
others than we truly do, because the real sympathy is lost 
in that constant air of cheerfulness which it is the part of 
good manners to a-sume. If the laws of politeness required 
of us to assume, in society, an appearance of sadness, as they 
now require from us an appearance of some slight degree 
of gayety, or, at least, of a disposition to be gay, it is prob- 
able that we should then remark any sympathy with glad- 
ness, as we now remark particularly any sympathy v>ith 
sorrow; and we should certainly, then, use the general 
name to express the former of these, as the more extraor- 
dinary, in the same way as we now use it particularly to 
express the feelings of commiseration. Joy," remarks the 
same writer, ** may be regarded as the common dress of 
society, and real complacency is thus as little remarkable 



INSTINCTIYE EMOTlOlSrS. 405 

as a well-fashioned coat in a drawing-room. Let ua con- 
ceive a single ragged coat to appear in the brilliant circle, 
and all eyes will be instantl}^ fixed on it. Even beauty it- 
self, till the buzz of astonishment is over, will, for the mo- 
ment, scarcely attract a single gaze, or wit a single listener. 
Such, with respect to the general dress of the social mind, 
is grief. It is something for the very appearance of which 
we are not prepared." 

Not true that we sympathize only with Sorrow. — These 
reasons sufficiently account for the almost exclusive atten- 
tion paid by moralists to this part of our sympathetic na- 
ture, as well as for the almost exclusive use of the term 
itself to denote participation in the sorrows, rather than in 
the joys of others. It is not necessary to infer from this 
circumstance, as some have done, that our sympathies are 
only with sorrow, that we do not experience a correspond- 
ing emotion in view of the happiness of others, a view as 
unfavorable to our nature as it is remote from truth. 

Distinction of Terms. — Sympathy, as usually employed, 
to denote a fellowship with the sufferings of others, is 
synonymous v/ith the more specific term commiseration, and 
this again is interchangeable with the terms pity and com- 
passion. So far as use establishes a difference between 
these terms, it is perhaps this : we more frequently employ 
the word compassion where there is an ability and a dispo- 
f-ition to relieve the suffering ; we pity and we commiserate 
what it is out of our powder to remedy. 

Strength of this Feeling. — The emotion of sympathy, 
especially in that form more specially under consideration, 
is probably one of the strongest and most marked in its ef- 
fects upon the mind, of any of the feelings of which w^e are 
susceptible. When fully aroused, it amounts even to a pas- 
sion. When the object that awakens ifc is exposed to immi- 
nent danger and there is need of instant and efficient exer- 
tion to avert the danger, and bring that relief which, if it 
comes at all, mu^jt come speedily, then there is no prudent 



400 INSTINCTIVE EMOTIONS. 

calculation of consequences, no deliberation, no hesitation, 
no fear, but, regardless of every danger, the sj^npathizer, 
forgetful of himself, and thinking only of the object to be 
accomplished, plunges into the sea or into the flames, faces 
the wild beast, or the more savage human foe, seizes the 
assassin's arm, or rushes desperately between the murder- 
ous weapon and its victim. This boldness and energy of 
action are, indeed, the result of sympathy, rather than the 
direct exercise of the emotion itself, but they show how 
powerful is the feeling from which they spring. 

Irrespective of moral Qualities. — It is worthy of note, 
moreover, that the emotion of which we speak, is, in great 
measure, irrespective of the moral qualities of the sufferer. 
He may be a criminal on the rack or the gallows, the most 
hardened and abandoned of men, and the suffering to which 
he is exposed may be the just punishment of his crimes, 
still it is impossible for any one whose heart is not itself 
hardened against all human suffering, to regard the miser- 
able victim with other than feelings of compassion. That 
must be a hard heart that could witness the agony of even 
its worst enemy, in such a case, without pity for the suf- 
ferer. 

Design of this Principle. — If we inquire, now, for what 
end this feeling was implanted in our nature, its final cause 
is obvious. It is a benevolent arrangement, the design of 
which is twofold : — first, to prevent undue suffering, by 
keeping in check the excited passions that would other- 
wise prompt to the infliction of immoderate and unjust 
punishment when the object of our resentment is in our 
power ; secondly, to secure that relief to the sufferer whicii, 
in circumstances of peril, might fail to be afforded were it 
not for the pressure and impulse of so strong and sudden 
an emotion. 

Adaptation to Circumstances. — A further and incidental 
benefit resulting from the possession of a lively sensibility to 
the joys and sorrows of others, has been noticed by Cogan, 



IlsrSTIKCTIVE EMOTIONS. 407 

in his treatise on the passions, viz., that it disposes the mind 
to accommodate itself readily to the tastes, manners, and dis- 
positions of those with whom we have occasion to associate. 
A mind of quick and ready sympathy easily enters into the 
feelings and understands the conduct of others under given 
circumstances, and is able to adapt itself to the same, easily, 
and by a sort of instinct. It places itself at ODce in the same 
position, and governs itself accordingly. 

Sympathy not to be traced to Self-love as its Origin. — 
The question has arisen, whether sympathy, which, of all the 
sensibilities, would seem to lie at the furthest remove from 
all admixture of selfishness, is not, after all, to be traced 
ultimately to the principle of self-love. Those philosophers 
who regard this principle as the main-spring of all human 
action, and the parent source of all the various emotions 
that agitate the human heart, are at some pains to show that 
even the feeling of pity may be traced to the same origin. 
It was the theory of Hobbes, that the sentiment of pity at 
the calamities of others springs from the imagination, or 
fiction as he terms it, of a similar calamity befalling our- 
selves. Adam Smith also maintains that it is only from 
our own experience that we can form any idea of the suffer- 
ings of others, and that the way in Avhich we form such an 
idea is by supposing ourselves in the same circumstances 
with the sufferer, and then conceiving how we should be 
affected. All this is very true. It is in this way, doubtless, 
that we get the idea of what another is suffering. But the 
idea of what he suffers is one thing, and our sympathy with 
that suffering is another. One is a conception, and the other 
is the feeling awakened by that conception. Moreover, it 
does not follow, as Mr. Stewart has well shown in his criti- 
cism upon this theory, that the sympathy in this case arises 
from our conceiving or believing, for the moment, those suf- 
ferings to be really our own. The feeling which arises on 
the contemplation of our own real or fancied distress, is quite 
another feeling in its character, from that of pity or com- 



408 INSTINCTIVE EMOTIONS. 

passion. The two emotions are readily distinguished. The 
mere uneiisiuess wliicli we feel at the sight of another's suf- 
fering, and the desire which we naturally feel to be rid of 
that uneasiness, are not the chief elements in compassion. 
If they were, the sure and simple remedy would be to rnn 
away from the distress which occasions the uneasiness, to 
put it as quickly as possible out of sight and out of mind. 
Such an emotion, prompting to such a course, might well 
be termed selfish. But this is not the true nature of sym- 
pathy. It is not a mere unpleasant sensation produced by 
observing the sufferings of another, though such a sensa- 
tion, doubtless, is produced in a sensitive mind, and accom- 
panies, or may even be said to form a part of, the emotion 
which we term sympathy ; there is, over and above this 
feeling of uneasiness, afelloivship of sorrow and of suffering, 
a bearing of that suffering with him, as //!.«, and not as our 
own, a pain /or him, and not for ourselves, the result and 
urgent prompting of which is the impulse, the strong irre- 
pressible desire to relieve, not ourselves from uneasiness, but 
the sufferer from that which occasions his distress. 

What follows from this Theory. — If compassion for others 
were the offspring of fear for ourselves, tlien, as Butler has 
well said, the most fearful natures ought to be the most 
compassionate, which is far from being the case. It may 
be added, also, that if sympathy is, in any respect, a selfish 
principle, then they who are most completely and habitu- 
ally governed by selfish considerations ought, for the same 
reason, to be the most keenly alive to the sufferings of 
others, which is little less than a contradiction in terms. 



CHAPTEH lU 

.RATIONAL EMOTIONS. 

§ I.-EMOTIONS OF JOY OR SADNESS ARISING FROM 
THE CONTEMPLATION OF OUR OWN EXCELLENCE 
OR THE REVERSE. 

Nature and Objects of this Emotion. — Among those sus- 
ceptibilities wliich, wbile implanted in our nature, and 
springing into exercise by their own spontaneous energy, 
imply in their operation the exercise of the reflective 
powers, and in general, of the higher intellectual faculties, 
and which on that account, we designate as rational, in dis- 
tinction from the instinctive emotions, a prominent place is 
due to those vivid feelings of pleasure, and pain, with which 
we contemplate any real or supposed excellence, or defect, 
in ourselves. The direct object of the emotions now under 
consideration, is self in some form or aspect. The imme- 
diate cause of these emotions is some real or fancied excel- 
lence which we possess, or, on the other hand, some real or 
imagined deficiency. This excellence or deficiency may 
pertain to our intellectual or to our moral qualities and 
attainments, or even to our circumstances and condition in 
Hfe, to any thing, in short, which is ours, and which dis- 
tinguishes us from our fellows. The quality contemplated 
may be a real possession and attainment, or it may exist 
only in our imagination and conceit. And so, also, of the 
defect ; that, too, may be real, or imaginary. In eitlier 
case, vivid feelings are awakened in the mind. It is impos- 
sible to contemplate ourselves either as possessing or as 
lacking any desirable quality without emotion, ])]oasing or 
painful, and that in a high degree. 

In what Manner awakened. — These emotions are awak- 



410 RATIONAL EMOTIOXS, 

ened in either of two ways : by the simple contemplation of 
the supi)ose(i excellence, or defect, in themselves considered 
as pertaining to us ; or, more frequently, by the comparison 
of ourselves with others in these respects. It is to the feel- 
ings awakened, in the latter case, by the perceived superi- 
ority or inferiority of ourselves to others, as the result of 
such comparison, that the terms pride and humility are 
ordinarily applied. These terms are relative, and imply, 
always, some process of comparison. There may be, how- 
ever, the painful consciousness of defect, or the pleasing 
consciousness of some high and noble attainment, when the 
relation which we sustain to others, as regards these points, 
forms no part of the object of contemplation. The com- 
parison is not of ourselves with others, but only of our pres- 
ent with our former selves. We are satisfied and delighted 
at our own progress and improvement, or humbled and 
cast down at our repeated failure, and manifest deficiency. 

Not the same with moral Emotion. — The emotions now 
under consideration must not be confounded with the satis- 
faction which arises in view^ of moral worthiness, and the 
regret and disapprobation with whicli we view our past con- 
duct as morally wrong. The emotions of which we now 
speak, are not of the nature of moral emotion, however 
closely allied in some respects. It is not the verdict of an 
approving or condemning conscience that awakens them. 
They have no reference to the right as such. The object is 
viewed, not in the light of obligation or duty, but merely 
as a fjood, a thing agreeable and desirable. Thus viewed, 
its possession gives us ])leasure, its absence, pain. 

Not blameworthy in itself. — In the simple emotion thus 
awakened, tlie satisfaction and pleasure with which we re- 
gard our own intellectual jmd moral attainments, or even 
our external circumstances, there is nothin*:: blaraable or 
unworthy of the true man. It is simply the working of 
nature. The susceptibility to such emotion is part of our 
constitution, implanted and inherent. As Dr. IJrowu has 



RATIONAL EMOTIONS. 411 

well remarked, it is impossible to desire excellence, and not 
to rejoice at its attainment; and if it is culpable to feel 
pleasure at attainments which have made us nobler than 
we were before, it must, of course, have been culpable to 
desire such excellence. 

In what Cases the Emotion becomes culpable. — It is only 
when the emotion exists in an undue degree, or with re- 
gard to unworthy objects, when the supposed excellence 
upon which we congratulate ourselves really does not exist, 
or, when existing, we are disposed to set ourselves up above 
others on account of it, and perhaps to look down upon 
others for the lack of it, or even to make them feel by our 
manner and bearing what and how great the difference is 
between them and us ; it is only under such forms and 
modifications, that the feeling becomes culpable and odi- 
ous. These it not unfrequently assumes. They are the 
states of mind commonly denoted by the term pride, as the 
word is used in common speech ; and the censure usually 
and very justly attached to the state of mind designated by 
that term, must be understood as applicable to the disposi- 
tion and feelings now described, and not to the simple emo- 
tion of pleasure in view of our own real or supposed attain- 
ments. That which we condemn in the proud man is not 
that he excels others, or is conscious of thus excelling, or 
takes pleasure even in that consciousness, but that, com- 
paring himself with others, and feeling his superiority, he 
is disposed to think more highly of himself than he ought, 
on account of it, and more contemptuously of others than 
he ought; and especially if he seeks to impress others with 
the sense of that superiority. 

Different Forms which this Disposition assumes.— This 
he may do in several ways. He may be fond of displaying 
his superiority, and of courting the applause and distinction 
which it brings. Then he is the vain man. He may make 
much of that which really is worth little, and plume him- 
self on what he does not really possess. Then he is the con- 



412 EAT I ox A L EMOTIONS. 

ceited man. He may look with coutcmpt ui)oii and treat 
with arrogance liis inferiors. Then lie is the haurjhty man. 
Or he may have too much pride to show in this way his own 
pride ; too much self-respect to put on airs, and court atten- 
tion hy display ; too much sense to rate himself very far 
above his real worth : too nmch good breeding to treat 
others with arrogance and hauteur. In that case he con- 
tents himself with his own high opinion and estimate of 
himself, and the enjoyment of his own conscious superiority 
to those around him. He is simply the proud man then, 
not the vain, the conceited, or the arrogant. The differ- 
ence, however, is not so much that he thinks less highly of 
himself, and less contemptuously of others in comparison, 
but that he does not so fully show what he thinks. The 
superiority is felt, but it is not so plainly manifested. 

The Disposition, as thus manifested, reprehensible. — Of 
this disposition and state of mind in any of its manifesta- 
tions as now described, it is not too much to say that it is 
worthv of the censure which it commonly receives. It is not 
merely unamiable and odious, but morally reprehensible. 
Especially is this the case where the superiority consists, not 
in mental or moral endowments and attainments, but in 
adventitious circumstances, such as beauty or strength of 
person, station in society, wealth, or the accident of birth- 
circumstances whicli imply no necessary worth in the po.> 
sessor, no real and iniierent superiority to those on whom 
he looks down. In such a case, pride is purely contemptible. 

Incompatible with the highest Excellence.— The highest 
excellence is ever incompatible with the disposition to think 
highly of om- present attainments and excellence, and to 
jdace ourselves above others in comparison. Emotions of 
pleasure may indeed arise in our minds, as we view the un- 
mistakable evidences of our own improvement. But the 
noblest nature is that which looks neither at itself, to mark 
its own acquirements, not yet at others below itself, to mark 
its own superiority, but whose earnest gaze is fixed only on 



EATIONAL EMOTIONS. 413 

that which is above and superior to itself— the bean ideal 
ever floating before it of an excellence not yet attained — in 
comparison with which all present attainments seem of lit- 
tle moment. The truly great and noble mind is ever hum- 
ble, and conscious of its own deficiencies. 



§ II.-ENJOYMENT OF THE LUDICROUS. 

Properly an Emotion. — Among the sources of rational en- 
joyment which the constitution of our nature affords, must 
be reckoned the feeling awakened by the perception of the 
ludicrous. We class this among the emotions, inasmuch as 
it is a matter of feeling, and of pleasurable feeling, differing 
in its nature not more from the intellectual faculties, on 
the one hand, than from the affections and desires, on the 
other. It is a species of joy or gladness, a pleasurable ex- 
citement of feeling, awakened by a particular class of ob- 
jects. Whatever else may be true of the feeling in ques- 
tion, the character of agreeableness is inseparable from it. 
It falls, therefore, properly into that class of feelings which 
comprises the various modifications of joy and sorrow, and 
which we have denominated simple emotions. 

Why rational.— We term it rational, rather than in- 
stinctive, inasmuch as it implies, if I mistake not, the exer- 
cise of the higher intellectual faculties. It is the preroga- 
tive of reason. The brute nature has no perception, and of 
course no enjoyment, of the ludicrous. The idiot has none. 
The uncultivated savage nature has it only in a slight de- 
gree. In this respect the feeling under consideration is 
([uite analogous to the enjoyment of the beautiful and sub- 
lime, and also to the feeling awakened in view of right or 
wrong action, the approbation or disapprobation of our past 
conduct. All these, though founded in our nature and con- 
stitution, are rational rather than instinctive, as implying 
the exercise of those faculties which more peculiarly dis- 
tinguish man from the lower orders of being. 



414 K A T I N A L E M T I O N S . 

In what Way to be defined. — To define i)rcciscly the 
emotion of the ludicrous would be as difficult as to give an 
exact definition of any other feeling. We must content 
ourselves, as in all such cases, by determining the circum- 
stances or conditions which give occasion for the feehng. 
Though we cannot define the emotion itself, we can care- 
fully observe and specify the various objects and occasions 
that give rise to it. 

The Question stated. — Views of Locke and Dryden. — 
Under what circumstances, then, is the feeling of the ludi- 
crous awakened ? What is that certain peculiarity, or qual- 
ity, of a certain class of objects, which constitutes what we 
call the hfdicrous, objectively considered ? Various answers 
have been given to this question, by writers not unaccus- 
tomed to the careful observation of mental phenomena. 
Mr. Locke's definition of wit is to this effect, that it consists 
in "putting those ideas together with quickness and variety, 
wherein can be found any resemblance or congruity, where- 
by to make up pleasant pictures and agreeable visions in the 
fancy." This, it has been justly remarked, is too comjire- 
hensive, since it includes the entire range of eloquence and 
poetry. It comprehends the sublime and the beautiful as 
well as the witty. It applies to the most facetious passages 
of Hudibras ; it applies equally well to the most eloquent 
passages of Burke or Webster, and to many of the finest 
passages of Paradise Lost. Still more comprehensive is 
Dryden's definition, who says of wit, that it is a propriety 
of thoughts and words, or thoughts and words eloquently 
adapted to the subject, a definiti(m which, it has been jo- 
cosely remarked, would include at once Blair's Scrmcns, 
Campbell's Pleasures of Hope, Caesar's Commentaries, the 
Philippics of Cicero, and the funeral orations of Bossuet, as 
j)eculiarly witty productions. It should in justice be re- 
marked, however, that neither Dryden nor Locke, in their 
use of the term wit, seem to luive had in mind whatw^o now 
understand by it, viz., facetiousness, or the mirth-provoking 



RATIONAL EMOTIOKS. 415 

power, but rather to have employed the word in that more 
general sense, in which it was foi'merly almost exchisively 
used, to denote smartness and vigor of the intellectual 
powers, good sense, sound jndgment, quickness of the ap- 
prehension, more particularly as these qualities are exhib- 
ited in discourse or in writing. 

Definition of Johnson. — Johnson comes nearer the mark 
when he defines wit as " a kind of concordia discors, a com- 
bination of dissimilar images, a discover}^ of occult resem- 
blances in things apparently unlike." Not much removed 
from this, if not indeed derived from it, is the definition of 
wit given by Campbell, in his Philosophy of Ehetoric — " that 
which excites agreeable surprise in the mind, by the strange 
assemblage of related images presented to it." To this, 
also, applies the same objection as to the preceding defini- 
tions, that it includes too much, the beautiful and sublime 
not less than the ludicrous, eloquence as well as wit. 

Of Hobbes. — Hobbes defines laughter, which, so far as 
relates to the mind, is merely the expression of the feeling 
of the ludicrous, to be " a sudden glory, arising from a 
sudden conception of some eminency in ourselves, by com- 
parison with the infirmity of others, or our own former in- 
firmity.^' There can be little doubt, I think, that the ob- 
ject which excites laughter, always presents itself to the 
mind as in some sense its inferior ; and in so far, the defi- 
nition involves an essential element of the ludicrous. The 
person laughing is always, for the time being, superior, in 
his own estimation at least, to the person or thing laughed 
at. It is some awkwardness, some blunder, some defect of 
body, mind, or manner, some lack of sharpness and sense, 
or of courage, or of dignity, some perceived incongruity be- 
tween the true character or position of the individual and 
his present circumstances, that excites our laughter and 
constitutes the ludicrous. 

Objections to this Theory. — It is not true, however, that 
the laughter or the disposition to laugh, arises from the 



416 RATIONAL EMOTIONS. 

simple concciition of our own superiority, or tlic inferiority 
of the object contcmpLitcd, even in the cases supposed; for 
if that were so, then wherever and whenever we discover 
such superiority, the feehng of the ludicrous ought to be 
awakened, and the greater the superiority, the stronger the 
tendency to mirth ; which is far from being the case. We 
are not disposed to laugh at the misfortunes of others, hov/- 
ever superior our own condition may be to theirs m that 
very respect. My estate may be better than my neighbor's, 
or my health superior to his, but I am not disposed to laugh 
at him on that account. On the theory of Ilobbes, no per- 
sons ought to be so full of merriment, even to overflowing, 
as the proud, self-conceited, and supercilious, who are most 
dce])ly impressed with the idea of their own vast superiority 
to people and things in general. The fact is precisely the 
reverse. Such persons seldom laugh, and when they do, the 
smile that plays for a moment on the face is of that cold and 
disdainful nature which is far removed from genuine and 
hearty merriment. It has little in it, as it has been well 
said, " of the fidl glorying and cmincncy of laughter/' but 
is rather like the smile of Cassius. 

" He loves no plays. 
As thou dost, Antony ; he hears no music ; 
Seldom lie smiles ; and smiles in such a sort, 
As if he mocked himself, and scorned his spirit. 
That could be moved to smile at any thing." 

We cannot then resolve tlie ludicrous into the simple per- 
ception of some inferiority of the object or person thus re- 
garded, to ourselves, since there are many kinds of inferioi- 
ity which do not, in the least, awaken tlu; sense of the 
ludicrous, while, at tlie same time, those Avho are most im- 
pressed by the consciousness of tlicir superiority are not 
usually most disposed to niirtli. 

Incongruity the essential Element. — If wc are required 
now to specify in what consists the essential cliaracter of the 



RATIONAL EMOTIONS. 417 

ludicrous, and of wit which may be regarded as the exciting 
or producing cause of the same, we should detect it in the 
grouping, or hriiiging together in a sudden and unexpected 
manner, ideas or things that are in their 7iature incongruous. 
The incongruity of the objects thus brought into juxtaposi- 
tion, and the suiyrise felt at the novel and unexpected rela- 
tion thus discovered, are, it seems to me, the true essential 
elements in the idea of the ludicrous. If we examine closely 
the different objects that give rise to this emotion, we shall 
find, I think, always something incongruous, and conse- 
quently unusual and unexpected, in the relations presented, 
whether of ideas or of things. It may be the result of acci- 
dent, or of awkwardness, or of mental obtuseness, or of de- 
sign ; it matters not in what mode or from what source the 
thing proceeds; whenever these conditions are answered, 
the sense of the ludicrous is awakened. 

Relation of Surprise to the ludicrous.— Surprise is an 
essential concomitant of the ludicrous. This is the state of 
mind into which we are thrown by the occurrence of any 
thing new, strange, out of the usual course, and, therefore, 
unexpected. Whatever is incongruous, is likely to be un- 
usual, and of course unexpected, and hence strikes the mind 
with more or less surprise. Not every thing that surprises 
us, however, is witty. The sudden fall of a window near 
which we are sitting, or the unexpected discharge of a mus- 
ket within a few paces of us, may cause us to start with sur- 
j>rise, but would not strike us probably as particularly face- 
tious. We are surprised to hear of the death of a friend, or 
of some fearful accident, attended with loss of life to many, 
but there is no mirthfulness in such surprise. It is only 
that form of surprise which is awakened by the perception 
of the incongruous, and not the surprise we feel in general 
at any thing new and strange, that is related to the ludi- 
crous. It is rather a concomitant, therefore, than strictly 
an element of the emotion we are now considering. 

Novelty as related to Wit. — How much novelty and sud- 
18* 



418 RATIONAL EMOTIONS. 

denness jidd to the effect of wit, every one knows. A story, 
however witty, once lieard, loses its freshness and zest, and, 
often repeated, becomes not merely uninteresting, but irk- 
some, and at length intolerable. In the same manner, and 
for the same reason, a witticism which we know to have 
been premeditated produces little effect, as compared with 
the same thing said in sudden repartee, and on the spur of 
the moment. That a man should have studied out some 
curious relations and combinations of things in his closet, 
does not surprise us so much, as that he should happen to 
conceive of these relations at the very moment when they 
would meet the exigency of the occasion. The epithets 
which we most commonly apply to any witty production or 
facetious remark, indicate the same thing ; we call it lively, 
fresh, sparkling, full of vivacity and zest — terms borrowed, 
perhaps, from the choicer wines,which will not bear exposure, 
but lose their flavor and life when once brought to the air. 
Even the Incongruous not always ludicrous. — We come 
to this result, then, in our owii attempted analysis, that the 
incongruity of the ideas or objects brought into relation with 
each other constitutes the essential characteristic, the invari- 
able element of the ludicrous, the effect being always greatly 
heightened by the surprise we feel at the novel and unex- 
pected combinations thus presented. It must be remarked, 
however, that even the incongruous and unexpected fail to 
awaken the sense of the ludicrous, when the object or event 
contemplated is of such a nature as to give rise to other an^ 
more serious emotions. When the occurrence, however 
novel and surprising in itself, or even ludicrous, is of such a 
nature as to endanger the life, or seriously injure the well- 
being of ourselves or of others, in the one case fear, in the 
other compassion, are at once awakened, and all sense of the 
ludicrous is completely at an end. The graver passion is at 
variance with the lighter, and banishes it from the mind. 
Should we see a well dressed and portly man. of some pre- 
tension and bearing, accidentally lose his footing and sprawl 



RATIONAL EMOTIONS. 419 

inglorioiisly in the gutter, our first impulse undoubtedly 
would be to laugh. The incongruity of his present position 
and appearance with his general neatness of person and dig- 
nity of manner would appeal strongly to the sense of the 
ridiculous. Should we learn, however, that in the fall he 
had broken his leg, or otherwise seriously injured himself, 
our mirthfulness at once gives place to pity. 

Discovery of Truth not allied to the ludicrous. — It is for 
a similar reason that the discovery of any new and import- 
ant truth in science, however strange and unexpected, never 
awakens the feeling of the ludicrous. Its importance car- 
ries it over into a higher sphere of thought and feeling. 
Kepler's law of planetary motion must have been at first a 
strange and wonderful announcement ; the chemical iden- 
tity of charcoal and the diamond presents, in a new and 
strange relation, objects apparently most unlike and incon- 
gruous ; yet, in all probability, neither the astronomer, nor 
the chemist, who made and announced these discoveines, 
were regarded by the men of the time as having done any 
thing peculiarly witty. We look at the importance of the 
results in such cases, and whatever of oddity or incongruity 
there may be in the ideas or objects thus related, fails to 
impress the mind in the presence of graver emotions. 

Various Forms of the ludicrous. — The incongruity that 
awakens the feeling of the ludicrous may present itself in 
many diverse forms. It may relate to objects, or to ideas. 
In either case, the grouping or bringing together of the in- 
congruous elements may be accidental, or it may be inten- 
tiojial. If accidental, it passes for a blunder ; if intentional, 
it takes the name of wit. 

Accidental and intentional grouping of Objects incongru- 
ous. — Of the accidental grouping of objects that are incon- 
gruous, we have an instance in the case already supposed, of 
the well dressed and dignified gentleman unexpectedly pros- 
trate in the mud. If in place of the dignified gentleman we 
have the dandy, or the Broadway exquisite, fresh from the 



420 RATIONAL E.AIOTIONS. 

toilet, the iiicoii^rnity is ho mucli tlie greater, and so miicli 
the greater our mirth. Let the hero of the scene, for in- 
stance, be such a one as Hotspur so contemptuously de- 
scribes as coming to parley with him after battle : — 

" When I was dry with raga and extreme toil, 
Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword, 
Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dressed, 
Fresh as a bridegroom ; and his chin, ne\v-reaped, 
Showed like a stubble-land at harvest home. 
He was perfumed like a milliner ; 
And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held 
A pouncet box, which ever and anon 
He gave his nose, and took 't away again ; 

— imagine such a character, with all his finery, floundering 
in the mud, and the ludicrousness of the scene would be 
such as to set at naught all attempts at gravity, even on 
the part of those who seldom smile. 

When the incongi-uous objects are purposely brought 
into relation for the sake of exciting mirth, the wit may be 
at the expense of others, in which case we have either the 
practical joke, or simple bufPooner}^, imitating the peculi- 
arities and. incongruities of others; or the joker may play 
off his wit at his own expense, and act the clown or the fool 
for the amusement of observers. 

Accidental grouping of incongruous Ideas. — When the 
incongruity is that not o{ objects, but of ideas brought into 
new and unexpected relation, and when this is the result of 
accident or awkwardness, rather than of design, we have 
what is termed a hhmder or a hitll. In such a case there is 
always involved some inconsistency between the thing 
meant, and the tlnng said or done. There is an appar- 
ent congruity, but a real incongruity of tlie related ideas. 
An instance of this occurs in the anecdote related by 
►Sydney Smith, of a ))hysician, who, l)eing })resent wliere 
the conversation turned ujMjn an Englisli nobleman of rank 



RATIOKAL EMOTIOKS. 421 

and fortune, but without cbildren, remarked, witli great 
seriousness, that to be childless was a misfortune, but he 
thought he had observed that it was hereditary in some 
famihes. Of this nature is most of the wdt which we call 
Irish; the result of accident rather than design — a blunder, 
a bull. It is said that during the late rebellion in Ireland, 
the enraged populace, on a certain occasion, vented their 
wrath against a famous banker, by solemnly resolving to 
burn all his bank-notes which they could lay liands on; for- 
getting, in their rage, that this was only to make them- 
selves so much the poorer, and him so much the richer. 
The instance given by Mr. Mahan is also in point, of two 
Irishmen walking together through the woods, the foremost 
of whom seizing a branch, as he passed along, and holding 
it for a while, suddenly let it fly back, whereby his com- 
panion behind was suddenly reduced to a horizontal posi- 
tion, but on recovering himself, congratulated his associate 
on having held back the branch as long as he did, since it 
must otherwise have killed him. 

Intentional grouping of incongruous Ideas. — The inten- 
tional grouping of incongruous ideas, for the purpose of 
exciting the feeling of the ludicrous, is more properly de- 
nominated wit. This, again, may assume diverse forms. 
Where the ideas are entirely dissimilar, but have a name or 
sound in common, which similarity of mere sound or name 
is seized upon as the basis of comparison, the wit takes the 
name of a pmi. The more complete the incongruity of the 
two ideas, thus brought into strange and unexpected relation, 
under cover of a word, the more perfect the pun, and the 
more ludicrous the effect. This kind of wit is deservedly 
reckoned as inferior. ^^ By unremitting exertions," says a 
quaint writer, ^^it has been at last put under, and driven 
into cloisters, from whence it must never again be suffered 
to emerge into the light of the world." One invaluable 
blessing, adds the same author, produced by the banishment 
of punning is, an immediate reduction of the number of wits. 



422 RATIONAL EMOTIONS. 

The Burlesque. — Wlien the wit is employed in debasing 
what is great and imposing, by applying thereto figures and 
phrases that are mean and contemptible, it takes the name of 
burlesque. The pages of Hudibras afford abundant illustra- 
tions of this form ofthe ludicrous. The battle of Don Quixote 
and the wind-mills is a burlesque on the ancient tournaments. 

The Mock-Heroic. — The mock-heroic, by a contrary })ro- 
cess, provokes the sense of the ridiculous by investing what 
is inconsiderable and mean with high-sounding epithets and 
dignified description. The battle of the mice and frogs is 
an instance of this. 

The double Meaning. — Beside the varieties of intentional 
incongruity of ideas already mentioned, there are certain less 
important forms of witticism, which can perhaps hardly be 
classed under any of the foregoing divisions. The whole 
tribe of double entendres, or double meanings, where one 
thing is said and another thing is meant, or at least where 
the apparent and honest is not the only or the real meaning ; 
satire, which is only a modification of the same principle, 
drawn out into somewhat more extended and dignified dis- 
course, and which, under the form of apparent praise, hides 
the shafts of ridicule and invective ; sarcasm, which conveys 
the intended censure and invective in a somewhat more in- 
direct and oblique manner; — these are all but various modes 
of what we have called intentional incongruity of ideas. 

This Principle, in what Respects of dangerous Tendency. 
— Of the value of this principle of our nature. I have as yet 
said nothing. To estimate it at its true worth, is not alto- 
gether an easy thing. On the one hand, there can be little 
doubt that, carried to excess, it becomes a dangerous prin- 
ciple. The tendency to view all things, even perhaps the 
most sacred, in a ludicrous light, and to discover fanciful 
and remote relations between objects and ideas the most 
diverse and incongruous, must exert an unhappy influence 
on the general tone and character of both the mind and the 
heart. Where wit, or the disposition to the ludicrous, be- 



RATIONAL EMOTIONS. 423 

comes the predominant quality of the mind, impressing the 
other and nobler faculties into its lawless service, it must be 
to the detriment of the mind's highest energies and capaci- 
ties ; to the detriment especially of that sincerity and honesty 
of purpose, and that earnest love of truth, which are the 
foundation of all true greatness. I speak in this of the ex- 
cess and abuse of wit; I speak of the mere wit. 

Of use to the Mind. — On the other hand, the tendency 
to the ludicrous has its uses in the economy and constitu- 
tion of our nature, and they are by no means to be over- 
looked. It gives a hghtness and buoyancy, a freshness and 
life, to the faculties that would otherwise be jaded in the 
weary march and routine of life. It is to the mind what 
music is to the soldier on the march. It enlivens and re- 
freshes the spirits. A hearty laugh doeth good like a medi- 
cine. A quick and keen perception of the ludicrous, when 
not permitted to usurp undue control, but made the servi- 
tor of the higher powers and propensities, and keeping its 
true place, not in the fore-front, but in the background of 
the varied and busy scene, is to be regarded as one of the 
most fortunate mental endowments. 

Wit often associated with noble Qualities. — There is no 
necessary connection, no connection of any sort, perhaps, 
between wisdom and dullness, although a great part of 
mankind have always persisted in the contrary opinion. 
The laughter-loying and laughter-provoking man is by no 
means a fool. He who goes through the Avorld, such as it 
is, and sees in all its caprices, and inconsistencies, and fol- 
lies, and absurdities, nothing to laugh at, much more justly 
deserves the suspicion of a lack of sense. ^* Wit," it has 
been justly remarked, 'Ms seldom the only eminent quality 
which resides in the mind of any man ; it is commonly ac- 
companied by many other talents of every description, and 
ought to be considered as a strong evidence of a fertile and 
superior understanding. Almost all the great poets, ora- 
tors, and statesmen of all times, have been witty." 



42-i RATIONAL EMOTIONS. 

Wit as an Instrument for correcting Folly. — There is one 
iini)orttint use of the faculty under consideration, to which 
I li:ive not as yet alluded. I refer to its power as an in- 
strument for keepiugin check the follies and vices of those 
who are governed by no higher 2jrinci])lo than a regard to 
the good opinion of society, and a fear of incurring the 
ridicule of an observing and sharp-sighted world. To 
such, and such tlierc are in multitudes, '* the ivorUVs dread 
laugh" is more potent and formidable than any law of God 
or man. There are, moreover, many lighter foibles and 
inconsistencies of even good men, for which tlie true and 
most effective weapon is ridicule. 

Remarks of Sidney Smith. — I cannot better conclude my 
remarks ui)on this part of our mental constitution, than by 
citing some very just observations of Sidney Smith — him- 
self one of the lieencyt wits of the age. 

^*I have talked of the danger of wit; I do not mean by 
that to enter into commonplace declamation against facul- 
ties, because they are dangerous ; wit is dangerous, eloquence 
is dangerous, a talent for observation is dangerous, every 
thing is dangerous that has energy and vigor for its charac- 
teristics; nothing is safe but mediocrity. * * =:« But 
when wit is combined with sense and information ; where 
it is softened by benevolence, and restrained by strong prin- 
ciple ; when it is in the hands of a man who can use it and 
despise it, who can be witty and something much heitcr than 
witty, who loves honor, justice, decency, good nature, mo- 
rality, and religion, ten thousand times better than wit ; 
wit is then a beautiful and delightful part of our nature." 

8 III.-ENJOYMENT OF THE NEW AND WONDERFUL. 

Surprise and Ennui.— Of that form of surprise which 
arises in view of the incongruous, and which accompanies 
tlie feeling of the ludicrous, I have already had occasion to 
sj)eak, in treating of that emotion. Of the feehng of sur- 



RATIOJS^AL EilOTlOKS. 425 

prise in general, its nature, and occasions, and also of that 
feeling to which it stands opposed, and which for want of 
a better term we may call ennui, I am now to speak. 

Definition and nature of Surprise. — Surprise may be de- 
fined as the feeling awakened by the perception of whateyer 
is new and wonderful. It is, in itself considered, an agree- 
able emotion, rather than otherwise. Variety and novelty 
are usually pleasing; our nature demands them, and is grati- 
fied at their occurrence. Monotony, the unbroken thread, 
and eyer-recurring routine of ordinary life and duty, weary, 
and, after a time, disgust us. Upon this listlessness and 
lethargy of the mind, a new and unexpected event, as the 
arrival of a friend, or the reception of some unlooked-for 
intelligence, breaks in with an agreeable surprise. Hence 
the eagerness of men, in all ages and all nations, to hear or 
see some new thing. It is only when the new event or in- 
telligence is of the nature of positive evil, when the news is 
of some misfortune, real or imagined, when the experience 
of present, or the fear of future suffering, is the direct and 
natural result of the occurrence, t]iat the surprise becomes 
a painful emotion. And even in such cases, I am not quite 
sure that there is not in the first excitement of the mind 
upon the recejDtion of bad news, as of the death of a friend, 
or the calamity of a neighbor, something for the moment 
of the nature of pleasure mingling with the pain. We deeply 
regret the occurrence, but are pleased to haye heard the 
news. The thing grieyes us, but not the hearing of it. It 
is not the surprise that pains us, but the thing at which we 
are surprised. Surprise, like every other form of mental 
excitement, is not, in itself, and within due bounds, dis- 
agreeable, but the reverse. 

How awakened. — This emotion is awakened, as alreadv 
stated, in ^dew of any thing unforeseen and unexpected. 
We naturally anticipate, to some extent, the course of the 
future. We presume it will be substantially as the past. 
We expect the recurrence of what has often and usually oc- 



426 R A T I X A L EMOTIONS. 

curred, and whenever any tiling breaks in on this established 
order of events, v/e are surprised at the interruption in the 
ordinary train of sequences. Hence the new and the strange 
alwa3^s excite surprise. 

Differs from Wonder. — Surprise differs from wonder, in 
that the latter involves an intellectual element, the effort of 
the mind to satisfy itself of the cause and proper explana- 
tion of the new and strange phenomenon. Surprise is 
purely a matter of sensibility, of feeling, and not of intel- 
lect. The mind is wholly passive under this emotion. It 
may lead to action, as may any other emotion, but, like 
every other emotion, it is, in itself, an influence exerted 
upon the mind, and not by it, something passively received, 
and not actively put forth. 

From Astonishment. — It differs from astonishment in 
that the latter expresses a higher degree of mental excite- 
ment, as in view of some occurrence exceedingly remarka- 
ble and strange, or of some object whose magnitude and 
importance fills the mind. 

Design of this Principle. — The end to be accomplished 
by this provision of our nature is sufficiently obvious. Our 
attention is tliercl)y called to whatever is out of the ordinary 
course, and vvdiich, from the circumstance that it is something 
unusual, may be supposed to require attention, and we ai-e 
put on our guard against the approaching danger, or roused 
to meet the present emergency. Surprise is the alarm-bell 
that calls all our energies into action, or at least warns them 
to be in present readiness for whatever service may be 
needed. The same principle operates also as a stimulus to 
exertion in the ordinary affairs of life. We seek new things, 
we are weary with the old, and this simple law of our na- 
ture is often one of the strongest incitements to effort. 

The opposite Feeling. — Tlic opposite of surprise is that 
uneasy feeling, of wliich we are conscious, from the constant 
recurrence of the same objects in unvaried sequence ; as, for 
instance, from the continued repetition of the same sound. 



RATIONAL EMOTIONS. 427 

or series of sounds, the uniform succession of the same or 
similar objects in the landscape, and tlie like. Every one 
knows how tedious becomes a perfectly straight and level 
road, with the same objects occurring at regular intervals, 
and with nothing to break the dead monotony of the scene. 
The most rugged passes of the Alps would be a relief in ex- 
change, both to body and mind. The rejDetition of the same 
song, or the same succession of musical sounds, however 
pleasing in themselves, becomes in hke manner, after a time, 
intolerable. For want of a better term, for I am not sure 
that we have in our own language any one word that ex- 
actly expresses the feeling now under consideration, we 
may borrow of the French the somewhat expressive term 
ennui, by which to designate this form of the sensibility. 

Use of Ennui. — There can be little doubt that this feel- 
ing subserves a valuable purpose in the constitution and 
economy of our nature. It is the needed motive and stimu- 
lus to action, without which we should settle down often 
into a sluggish indifference and contentment with things as 
they are, inst-ead of pressing forward to something worthier 
and better. 

§ IV.-ENJOYMENT OF THE BEAUTIFUL AND 
SUBLIME. 

The Enjoyment, as distinguished from the intellectual 
Perception of the Beautiful.~Of the idea of the beautiful, 
and of the action of the mind as cognizant of it, in so far as 
regards the intellectual faculties, I have already treated in 
another connection. But it is not the intellect alone that 
comes under the influence of the beautiful. What the sense 
perceives, what the taste and judgment recognize and ap- 
prove, the sensibility is quick to feel. Emotion is awakened. 
No sooner is a beautiful object perceived in nature or art, 
than we are conscious of lively sensations of pleasure. So 
strong and so universal are these feelings, that many writers 
have been led to speak of beauty itself, as if it were an emo- 



428 RATIONAL EMOTIONS. 

tion, a merely subjective matter, an affair of fueling merel3\ 
The incorrectness of tliis view has been already shown, and 
we need not enter upon tlie discussion anew. 

The term Admiration. — The feeling awakened by the 
perception of the beautiful, like some other feelings of which 
we are conscious, has not a name that precisely designates 
it ; hence tlie expression — ambiguous, and, therefore, objec- 
tionable — emotions of beauty, employed by certain writers 
to denote the feeling in question. The word achniraiion, 
though often used in a somewhat wider sense, perhaps more 
nearly expresses the emotion to which I refer, than any 
other word in our language. We are surprised at what is 
new and strange. We admire what is beautiful and sublime. 
The feeling is one of pure and unalloyed pleasure, mingled 
with more or less of wonder or surprise, in case the object 
contemplated is one which is new to us, or one of rare and 
surpassing beauty. As the beautiful has its opposite — the 
deformed or ugly — so the feeling which it awakens stands 
contrasted with an opposite emotion, viz., disgust. 

In connection with this form of sensibility, there are some 
questions requiring consideration. 

Whether the Emotion is immediate. — It is a question 
somewliat debated, whether the emotions awakened by the 
beautiful and sublime are immediate, or reflective ; whether 
they spring up at once on perception of the object, or only 
as the result of reflection and reasoning. Those who main- 
tain that beauty consists in utility, or in order and propor- 
tion, fitness, upity with variety, etc., must, of course, regard 
the emotions awakened by it as not immediate, since, ac- 
cording to their tlieory, time mustl)e allowed for tlie under- 
standing to convince itself, in the first place, that the object 
is useful, etc. The qualities constituting tlie beauty must 
be first apprehended by the mind as existing in the object, 
before there can be emotion, and to do this is the work of 
reflection. If, however, beauty is but the expression of the 
invisible under the visible and sensible forms, then all that 



RATIONAL EMOTIONS. 429 

is necessary to produce emotion is simply the perception of 
the object thus expressive, since the moment it is perceived, 
it is perceived as expressing something, and thus, appealing 
to our own spiritual nature, awakens immediate emotion. 

How to be decided. — The question must be decided by 
the observation of facts, and the result will constitute an ad- 
ditional argument in favor of one, or the other, of the gen- 
eral views of the beautiful now named. What then are the 
facts in the case, as given by consciousness, and observation ? 

Testimony of Consciousness. — So far as I can judge, no 
sooner do we find ourselves in presence of a beautiful object 
than we are conscious of emotions of pleasure. There is no 
previous cross-questioning of the object to find out whether 
it is adapted to this or that useful end, or whether the rules 
of order, and proportion, are observed in its construction. 
Before we have time to think of these things, the sensi- 
bility has already responded to the appeal which beauty ever 
makes to our sensitive nature, and the first distinct fact of 
which we are conscious is an emotion of pleasure. 

Effect of Repetition. — Consciousness assures us, more- 
over, that the pleasure is usually quite as vivid at the first 
sight of a beautiful object as ever after, which would indi- 
cate that it is not the result of reflection. In truth, repeti- 
tion is found, in most cases, to weaken the emotion, and 
familiarity may even destroy it. Yet every repetition adds 
to our opportunity for observation and reflection, and 
strengthens our conviction of the utility, the order, the fit- 
ness, the proportion, of that which we observe. 

Critical Reflection subsequent to Emotion. — It seems 
evident, moreover, that whatever reflections of this nature 
we may choose to indulge, are uniformly subsequent to the 
first emotion of pleasure and delight, to the first impression 
made upon us by the beauty of the object — after-thoughts 
readily to be distinguished from those first impressions — 
and that they are usually the result of a special volition to 
inform ourselves as to these matters ; whereas the emotion 



43.0 RATIONAL EMOTION'S. 

is spontaneous and involuntary. Doubtless a pleasure arises 
from the i)erception of the qualities referred to, but it is a 
pleasure of another kind from that which arises in yiew of 
the beautiful, as such. We must think, then, that the 
emotions awakened by the beautiful are immediate, not 
reflective. 

Further Question. — Closely allied to the preceding is 
the question. Which precedes the other, the euiotion which 
a beautiful object awakens, or the judgment of the mind 
that the object is beautiful. Logically, doubtless, the two 
things may be distinguished, but not, perhaps, in order of 
time. No sooner is the object perceived, than it is both 
perceived and felt to be beautiful. The emotion awakened 
and the mental affirmation, " That is beautiful," are both 
immediate on the perception of the object, synchronous 
events, so far as concerns at least our ability to distinguish 
between them in point of time. 

Logically, Emotion precedes. — In point of logical rela- 
tion, the emotion, I think, must be allowed the precedence, 
although so high an authority as Kant decides otherwise. 
Had we no emotion in view of the beautiful, we should 
not know that it was beautiful. As, universally, sensation is 
the indispensable condition of perception, and logically, at 
least, its antecedent, so here the feeling of the beautiful is 
the condition and source of the perception of the beautiful. 
The object strikes us as being so, moves us, affects us, pro- 
duces on us the impression, and hence we say, '*That is 
beautiful.'' Had we no susceptibility of emotion in view of 
the beautiful, it may be seriously questioned whether we 
should ever have the perception or impression that any 
given object is beautiful. 

The Beautiful as distinguished from the Sublime. — There 
is still another point deserving attention. In discussing 
the aesthetic emotions, we have spoken as yet only of the 
feeUng awakened by the beaut if nl. How do these emotions 
differ — in degree merely, or in nature ? 



RATION^AL EMOTIONS. 431 

The Opinion that they differ only in Degree. — Some have 
maintained that sublimity is only a higher dogree of what 
we call beauty. A little stream playing among the hills and 
tumbling over the rocks is beautiful ; a little further on, as 
it grows larger, and swifter, and stronger, it becomes sub- 
lime. If this be- so, it is a very simple matter : the survey- 
or's chain,' or a ten-foot pole, will, at any time, give us the 
difference, and enable us to determine- at once Avhether a 
river or a mountain is merely pretty, or sublime. 

Different Emotions excited by each. — If they differ in 
kind, however, and not merely in quantity", it may not be 
so easy to tell just what the difference is. We can best de- 
tect it, perhaps, by observing carefully the difference of the 
emotions excited in us by the two classes of objects. I con- 
template an object, which, m common with all the world, I 
call beautiful. What emotion does that object awaken in 
me ? An emotion of pleasure and delight, for which I can 
find, perhaps, no better name than admiration. I contem- 
plate now another object which men call sublime. What 
now are my emotions? Admiration there may be, but not, 
as before, a calm, placid delight; far otherwise. An admi- 
ration mingled with awe, a sense of greatness and of power 
in the object now oppresses me, and I stand as before some 
superior being, or element, in whose presence I feel my com- 
parative feebleness and insignificance. 

The Sublime conveys the Idea of superior Power. — Ac- 
cordingly we find that the objects which men call sublime 
are invariably such as are fitted to awaken such emotions. 
They are objects which convey the idea of superior force 
and power — something grand in its dimensions or in its 
strength — something vast and illimitable, beyond our com- 
prehension and control. The boundless expanse of the 
ocean, the prairie, or the J3athless desert, the huge mass of 
some lofty mountain, the resistless cataract, the awful crash 
of the thunder, as it rolls along the trembling firmament, 
the roar of the sea in a storm when it lifteth up its Avaves on 



432 RATIONAL E i[ T I N S . 

high, the movements of an army on the battle-field — these, 
and such as these, arc the objects we call sublime. The lit- 
tle may be beautiful, it is never sublime. Nor is the merely 
great always so, but only when it conveys the idea of supe- 
rior power. Montmorenci is beautiful, Niagara is sublime. 
A Swiss valley, nestling among the hills, is beautiful ; the 
mountains that tower above it throusfh the overhanijinof 
clouds into the pure upper sk}^ and in the calm, serene 
majesty of their strength stand looking down upon the 
slumbering world at their feet, and all the insignificance of 
man and his little afiairs, are sublime. 

The Sublime and the Beautiful associated. — Nor is the 
sublime always unassociated with the beautiful. Niagara is 
not more sublime than beautiful. The deep emerald hue of 
the waters as they plunge, the bow on the mist, the foam 
sparkling in the abyss below, are each among the most beau- 
tiful objects in nature. The sublime and the beautiful are 
often mingled thus, distinct elements, but conjoined in the 
same object. The highest aesthetic effect is produced by 
this combination. The beauty tempers the sublimity ; the 
sublimity elevates and ennobles the beauty. It is thus at 
Niagara. It is thus when the sunrise flashes along the sum- 
mits of the snowy Alps. 

The Beautiful tranquilizes, the Sublime agitates. — The 
beautiful pleases us; so, in a sense, does the sublime. Both 
produce agreeable emotions. Yet they differ. In the en- 
joyment of the beautiful there is a calm, quiet pleasure ; 
the mind is at rest, undisturbed, can at its leisure and sweet 
will admire the delicacy and elegance of that which fills it 
with delight. But in the perception of the sublime it is 
otherwise. The mind is agitated, is in sympathy with the 
stir, and strife, and play of the fierce elements, or is op- 
pressed with the feeling of its 6wn insignificance, as con- 
trasted with the stern majesty and strength of what it 
c()ntcm])lates. Hence the sublime takes a deeper hold on tlie 
mind tlian the merely beautiful, awos it, elevates i!, routes 



RATIONAL EMOTION^S. 433 

its slumbering energies, quickens the slow course of thought, 
and makes it live, in brief moments, whole hours and days 
of ordinary life. The beautiful charms and soothes us ; the 
sublime subdues us and leads us captive. The one awakens 
onr sympathy and love, the other rouses in us all that is 
noble, serious, and great in our nature. 

Relation of the Sublime to Fear. — The relation of the 
sublime to fear has been noticed by several writers. Men- 
delssoltn, Ancillon, Kant, JoufEroy, Blair, have spoken of 
it, as well as Burke. The latter was not far from right in 
his theory of fear as an element of the sublime. It were 
better to say awe than fear, for the boldest and stoutest 
hearts are fully susceptible of it; and it were better to 
speak of it as an element of our emotion in view of the 
sublime, than as an element of the sublime itself. 

Cultivation of sesthetic Sensibility. — I cannot, in this 
connection, entirely pass without notice a topic requiring 
much more careful consideration than my present limits 
will permit — the cultivation of the aesthetic sensibility — of 
a love for the beautiful. 

This Culture neglected. — The love of the beautiful is 
merely one of the manifold forms of the sensibility, and, in 
common with every other feeling and propensity of our 
nature, it may be augmented, quickened, strengthened to a 
very great degree by due culture and exercise. It is an en- 
dowment of nature, but, like other native endowments, it 
may be neglected and suffered to die out. This, unfortu- 
nately, is too frequently the case with those especially who 
are engaged in the active pursuits of life. The time and 
the attention are demanded for other and more important 
matters, and so the merely beautiful is passed by unheeded. 
It admits of question, whether it is not a serious defect in 
our systems of education, that so little attention is paid to 
the culture of the taste, and of a true love for the beauti- 
ful. The means of such a culture are ever at hand. The 
great works and the most perfect models in art are not, 
19 



434 RATIONAL EMOTIONS. 

indeed, accessible to all. Not every one can cross the seas 
to study the frescoes of Raphael and Michael Angelo. But 
around us in nature, along our daily paths, are the works 
of a greater Artist, and no intelligent and thoughtful mind 
need be unobservant of their beauty. Nor is there danger, 
as some may apprehend, that we shall carry this matter to 
excess. The tendencies of our age and of our country are 
wholly the reverse. The danger is rather that in the ac- 
tivity and energy of our new hfe, the higher culture will 
be overlooked, and the love of the beautiful die out. 

Value of this Principle. — The love of the beautiful is the 
source of some of the purest and most exquisite pleasures of 
life. It is the gift of God in the creation and endowment 
of the human soul. Nature lays the foundation for it among 
her earliest developments. The child is, by nature, a lover 
of the beautiful. Nor is it in early life alone that this prin- 
ciple has its natural and normal developments. On the con- 
trary, under favorable circumstances, it grows stronger and 
more active as the mind matures, and the years pass on. 
Happy he who, even in old age, keeps fresh in his heart this 
pure and beautiful fountain of his youth ; who, as days ad- 
vance, and shadows lengthen, and sense grows dull, can still 
look, with all the admiration and delight of his childish years, 
on whatever is truly beautiful in the works of God or man. 

§ v.- SATISFACTION IN VIEW OF RIGHT CONDUCT 
AND REMORSE IN VIEW OF WRONG. 

The Feeling, as distinguished from the Perception of 
Right. — In the chapter on the Idea and Cognizance of che 
Eight, the notion of right, in itself considered, and also the 
mind's action as cognizant of the right, so far at least as con- 
cerns the intellectual faculties thus employed, were fully dis- 
cussed. It is not necessary now to enter again upon the 
investigation of tliese topics. But, as in the cognizance of 
the beautiful, so in the cognizance of the right, not only is 



RATIONAL EMOTIONS. 435 

the intellect exercised, but the sensibility also is aroused. 
As consequent upon the perceptions of the intellect, emotion 
is awakened ; and that emotion is both definite and strong. 
It is peculiar in its operation. No emotion that stirs the 
human bosom is more uniform in its development, more 
strongly marked in its character, or exerts a deeper and more 
permanent influence on the happiness and destiny of man, 
than the satisfaction with which he views the virtuous con- 
duct of a well-spent hour or a well-spent life, and the regret, 
amountingsometimesto remorse,with which, on the contrary, 
he looks back upon the misdeeds andfollies ofthe past. Of all 
the forms of joy and sorrow that cast their lights and shadows 
over the checkered scene and pathway of human existence, 
there are none which, aside from their ethical relations, are 
of deeper interest to the ps3'^chologist, or more worthy his 
careful study, than the emotions to which I now refer. 

The moral Faculty not resolvable into moral Feeling. — 
So deeply have certain writers been impressed with the im- 
portance of this part of our nature, that they have not hesi- 
tated to resolve the moral faculty itself into the emotions 
now under consideration, and to make the recognition of 
moral distinctions ultimately a mere matter of feeling. This, 
whether regarded ethically, or psychologically, is certainly a 
great mistake, fatal in either case to the true science whether 
of morals or of mind. Right and wrong, as also the beau- 
tiful and ifcs opposite, are not mere conceptions of the human 
mind. They have an actual objective existence and reality, 
and, as such, are cognized by the mind, which perceives a 
given act to be right or wrong, and, as such, obligatory or the 
opposite, and approves or condemns the deed, and the doer, 
accordingly. So far the intellect is concerned. But the 
process does not stop here. Sensibility is awakened. The • 
verdict and calm decisions of the judgment are taken up by 
the feelings, and made the basis and occasion of a new form 
of mental activity. It is with this excitement of the sensi- 
bility in view of conduct as right or wrong, that we are now 



43G RATIONAL EMOTIONS. 

concerned, and while we can by no means resolve all our 
moral perceptions and judgments into this class of emo- 
tions, we would still assign it an important place among 
the various forms of mental activity. 

Not limited to our own Conduct. — The emotion of which 
we speak is not limited to the occasions of our own moral 
conduct ; it arises, also, in view of the moral actions of 
others. A good deed, an act of generosity, magnanimit}', 
courage, by whomsoever performed, meets our approbation, 
and awakens in our bosoms feelings of pleasure. If the act 
is one of more than ordinary heroism and self-sacrifice, we 
are filled with admiration. Instances of the opposite ex- 
cite our displeasure and disgust. No small part of the 
interest with which we trace the records of history, or the 
])ages of romance, arises from that constant play of the 
feelings with which we watch the course of events, and the 
development of character, as corresponding to or at vari- 
ance with the demands of our moral nature. 

A good Conscience an Object of universal Desire.— But 
it is chiefly when we become ourselves the actors, and the 
decisions of conscience respect our own good or evil deeds, 
that we learn the true nature and power of the moral emo- 
tions. A good conscience, it has been said, is the only ob- 
ject of universal desire, since even bad men wish, though in 
vain, for the happiness which it confers. It would perhaps 
be more correct to say that an accusing conscience is an 
object of universal dread. But in either case, whether for 
approval or condemnation, very great is its power over the 
human mind. 

Sustaining Power of a good Conscience. — We all know 
something of it, not only by the observation of others, but 
by the consciousness of our own inner life. In the testi- 
mony of a good conscience, in its calm, deliberate approval 
of our conduct, lies one of the sweetest and purest of the 
pleasures of life; a source of enjoyment whose springs are 
beyond the reach of accident or viwy ; a fountain in the 



RATION^AL EMOTIONS. 437 

desert making glad the wilderness and the solitary place. 
It has, moreoYer, a sustaining power. The consciousness 
of rectitude, the approval of the still small voice within, 
that whispers in the moment of danger and weakness, " You 
are right," imparts to the fainting soul a courage and a 
strength that can come from no other source. Under its 
influence the soul is elevated above the violence of pain, and 
the pressure of outward calamity. The timid become bold, 
the weak are made strong. Here lies the secret of much of 
the heroism that adorns the annals of martyrdom and of 
the church. Women and children, frail and feeble by na- 
ture, ill fitted to withstand the force of public opinion, and 
shrinking from the very thought of pain and suffering, have 
calmly faced the angry reproaches of the multitude, and 
resolutely met death in its most terrific forms, sustained by 
the power of an approving conscience, whose decisions 
were, to them, of more consequence than the applause or 
censure of the world, and whose sustaining power bore 
them, as on a prophet's chariot of fire, above the pains of 
torture and the rage of infuriated men. 

Power of Remorse. — Not less is the power of an accusing 
conscience. Its disapprobation and censure, though clothed 
with no external authority, are more to be dreaded than the 
frowns of kings or the approach of armies. It is a silent 
constant presence that cannot be escaped, and will not be 
pacified. It embitters the happiness of life, cuts the sinews 
of the soul's inherent strength. It is a fire in the bones, 
burning when no man suspects but he only who is doomed 
to its endurance ; a girdle of thorns worn next the heart, 
concealed, it may be, from the eye of man, but giving the 
wearer no rest, day nor night. Its accusations are not loud, 
but to the guilty soul they are terrible, penetrating her 
inmost recesses, and making her to tremble as the forest 
trembles at the roar of the enraged lion, as the deep sea 
trembles in her silent depths, when her Creator goeth by 
on the wings of the tempest, and the God of glory thun- 



438 RATIONAL EMOTIONS. 

derctli. The bold bud man hears that accusing voice, aud 
his strength departs from him. The heart that is inured 
to all evil and grown hard in sin, and fears not the face of 
man, nor the law of God, hears it, and becomes as the 
heart of a child. 

How terrible is remorse! that worm that never dies, that 
fire that never goes out. We cannot follow the human soul 
beyond the confines of its present existence. But it is an 
opinion entertained by some, and in itself not improbable, 
that, in the future, conscience will act with greatly in- 
creased power. When the causes that now conspire to pre- 
vent its full development and perfect action, shall operate 
no longer; when the tumult of the march and the battle 
are over ; when the cares, the pleasures, the temptations, 
the vain pursuits, that now distract the mind with their 
confused uproar, shall die away in the distance, and cease 
to be heard, in the stillness of eternity, in the silence of a 
purely spiritual existence, the still small voice of conscience 
may perhaps be heard as never before. In the busy day- 
time we catch, at intervals, the sound of the distant ocean, 
as a low and gentle murmur. In the still night, when all 
is hushed, we hear it beating, in heavy and constant surges, 
on the shore. And thus it may be with the power of con- 
science in the future. 



SENSIBILITIES 



s(0)*- 



PART SECOND. 



THE AFFECTIONS 



THE AFFECTIONS. 



CHAPTEH I. 

BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS, 

Character of the Affections as a Class. — Of the three 
generic classes into which the sensibilities were divided, 
viz., Simple Emotions, Affections, and Desires, the first 
alone has, thus far, engaged our attention. We now ap- 
proach the second. It will be remembered that, in our 
analysis of the sensibilities, the Affections were distin- 
guished from the Simple Emotions, as being of a complex 
character, involving, along with the feeling of delight and 
satisfaction in the object, or the reverse, the wish, more 
or less definite and intense, of good or ill to the object that 
awakens the emotion. The feeling thus assumes an active 
and transitive form, going forth from itself, and even for- 
getting itself, in its care for the object. 

How divided. — The affections, it will also be remembered, 
were further divided into the lenevolent and malevolent, ac- 
cording as they seek the good or the ill of the object on 
vv'hich they fasten. As the simple emotions are but so 
many forms of joy and sorrotv, so, likewise, the affections 
are but so many modifications of the principle of love and 
its opposite, hate. 

Effects upon the Character in their marked Development. 
— When these give tone to the general character of an in- 
dividual, he becomes the philanthropist or misanthropist, the 
19* 



442 BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 

man of kind and gentle disposition, or the hater of his race, 
according as the one or the other principle predominates. 

Eoused to more than ordinary activity, breaking away 
from the restraints of reason, and the dictates of sober judg- 
ment, assuming the command of the soul, and urging it on 
to a given end, regardless of other and higher interests, 
these affections assume the name of passions, and the spec- 
tacle is presented of a man di'iven blindly and madly to the 
accomplishment of his wishes, as the ship, dismantled, drives 
before the storm ; or else, in stern conflict with himself and 
the feelings that nature has implanted in his bosom, con- 
trolling Avith steady hand his own restless and fiery spirit. 

Relation to the simple Emotions. — Tlie relation which 
the affections, as a class, bear to the simple emotions, de- 
serves a moment's attention. The one class naturally fol- 
lows and grows out of the other. What we enjoy, we come 
naturally to regard with feelings of affection, while that 
which causes pain, naturally awakens feelings of dislike and 
aversion. So love and hate succeed to joy and sorrow in 
our hearts, as regards the objects contemplated. The sim- 
ple emotions precede and give rise to the affections. 

Enumeration. — The benevolent affections, to which we 
confine our attention in the present chapter, assume differ- 
ent forms, according to their respective objects. 

The more prominent are, love of kindred, love of friends, 
love of belief actors, love of home and country. Of these we 
shall treat in their order. 



8 I.-LOVE OF KINDRED. 

Includes what. — Under this head we may include the 
parental, the filial, and the f rat ej'nal n^cciion, as modifica- 
tions of the same principle, varying according to the vary- 
ing relations of the parties concerned. 

Does not grow out of the Relations of the Parties. — That 
the affection (jroivs out of tlie ivlatioiis sustained by the 



BEKEVOLEKT AFFECTIONS. 443 

parties to each other, I am not prepared to affirm, although 
some have taken this view ; I should be disposed rather to 
regard it as an implanted and original principle of our na- 
ture; still, that it is very much influenced and augmented 
by those relations, and that it is manifestly adapted to 
them, no one, I think, can deny. 

But adapted to that Relation. — How intimate and how 
peculiar the relation, for example, that subsists between pa- 
rent and child, and how deep and strong the affection that 
binds the heart of the parent to the person and well-being 
of his offspring. The one corresponds to the other ; the 
affection to the relation ; and the duties which that relation 
imposes, and all the kind offices, the care, and attention 
which it demands, how cheerfully are they met and fulfilled, 
as prompted by the strength and constancy of that affec- 
tion. Without that affection, the relation might still exist, 
requiring the same kind offices, and the same assiduous care, 
and reason might point out the propriety and necessity of 
their performance, but how inadequate, as motives to action, 
would be the dictates of reason, the sense of propriety, or 
even the indispensable necessity of the case, as compared 
with that strong and tender parental affection which makes 
all those labors pleasant, and all those sacrifices light, which 
are endured for the sake of the helpless ones confided to its 
care. There was need of just this principle of our nature to 
meet the demands and manifold duties arising from the re- 
lation to which we refer; and in no part of the constitution 
of the mind is the benevolence of the great Designer more 
manifest. "What but love could sustain the weary mother 
during the long and anxious nights of watching by the 
couch of her suffering child ? What but love could prompt 
to the many sacrifices and privations cheerfully endured for 
its welfare ? Herself famished with hunger, she divides the 
last morsel among those who cry to her for bread. Herself 
perishing with cold, she draws the mantle from her own 
shoulders to protect the little one at her side from the fury 



444 B E N E V O L i: N T AFFECTIONS. 

of the blast, She freely perils her own lite for the safety of 
her child. These instances, while they show the strength 
of that affection which can prompt to such privation and 
self-sacrifice, show, also, the end which it was designed to 
subserve, and its adaptation to that end. 

This Aflfection universal. — The parental affection is uni- 
versal, not peculiar to any nation, or any age, or any condi- 
tion of society. Nor is it strong in one case, and weak in 
another, but everywhere and always one of the strongest 
and most active principles of our nature. Nor is it pecu- 
liar to our race. It is an emotion shared by man in com- 
mon with the lower orders of intelligence. The brute-beast 
manifests as strong an affection for her offspring, as man 
under the like circumstances exhibits. The white bear of 
the arctic glaciers, pursued by the hunter, throws herself 
between him and her cub, and dies in its defence. 

All these circumstances, the precise adaptation of the 
sensibility in question to the peculiar exigencies it seemed 
designed to meet, the strength and constancy of that affec- 
tion, the universality of its operation, and the fact that is 
common to man with the brute, all go to show that the 
principle now under consideration must be regarded as an 
instinctive and original principle, implanted in our nature 
by the hand that formed us. 

Strengthened by Circumstances. — But though an original 
principle, and, therefore, not derived from habit or circum- 
stance, there can be no doubt that the affection of which 
we speak is greatly modified, and strengthened, by the cir- 
cumstances in which the parent and child are placed with 
respect to each other, and also by the power of habit. Like 
most of our active principles, it finds, in its own use and 
exercise, the law of its growth. So true is this, that when the 
care and guardianship of the child arc transferred to other 
hands, there springs up something ot the parent's love, in 
the heart to which has been ctmfided this new trust. It 
seems to be a law of our nature that we love those who are 



BEKEVOLEKT AFFECTIONS. 445 

dependent on us, who confide in us, and for whom we are 
required to exert ourselves. The more dependent and help- 
less the object of our solicitude, and the greater the sacrifice 
we make, or the toil we endure, in its behalf, the greater our 
regard and affection for it. If in the little group that gath- 
ers around the poor man's scanty board, or evening fireside, 
there is one more' tenderly loved than another, one on whom 
his eye more frequently rests, or with more tender solicitude 
than on the others, it is that one over whose sick-bed he has 
most frequently bent with anxiety, and for whose benefit he 
has so often denied himself the comforts of life. By every 
sacrifice thus made, by every hour of toil and privation 
cheerfully endured, by every watchful, anxious night, and 
every day of unremitting care and devotion, is the parental 
affection strengthened. And to the operation of the same 
law of our nature is doubtless to be attributed the regard 
which is felt, under similar circumstances, by those who 
are not parents, for the objects of their care. But it may 
reasonably be doubted whether, in such case, the affection, 
although of the same nature, ever equals, in intensity and 
fervor, the depth and strength of a parent's love. 

Strongest in the Mother. — The parental affection, though 
common to both sexes, finds its most perfect development 
in the heart of the mother. Whether this is the natural re- 
sult of the principle already referred to, the care and effort 
that devolve in greater degree upon the mother, and awaken 
a love proportionably stronger, or whetlier it is an original 
provision of nature to meet the necessity of the case, we 
can but see in the fact referred to a beautiful adaptation 
of our nature to the circumstances^ that surround us. 

Stronger in the Parent than in the Child. — The love of 
the parent for the child is stronger than that of the child for 
the parent. There was need that it should be so. Yet is 
there no affection, of all those that find a place in thre hu- 
man heart, more beautiful and touching than filial love. Nor, 
on the contrary, is there any one aspect of human nature. 



446 BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 

imperfect as it is, so sad and revolting as the spectacle soQie- 
times presented, of filial ingratitude, a spectacle sure to 
awaken the indignation and abhorrence of every generons 
heart. When the son, grown to manhood, forgets the aged 
mother that bore him, and is ashamed to support her totter- 
ing steps, or leaves to loneliness and want the father whose 
• whole life has been one of care and toil for him, he receives, 
as he deserves, the contempt of even the thoughtless world, 
and the scorn of every man whose opinion is worth regard- 
ing. There have not been wanting noble instances of the 
strength of the filial affection. If parents have voluntarily 
incurred death to save their children, so, also, though per- 
haps less frequently, have children met death to save a 
parent. 

Value of these Affections. — The parental and filial affec- 
tions lie at the foundation of the social virtues. They form 
the heart to all that is most noble and elevating, and consti- 
tute the foundation of all that is truly great and valuable in 
character. Deprived of these influences, men may, indeed, 
become useful and honorable members of society — such cases 
have occurred — but rather as exceptions to the rale. It is 
under the genial influences of home, and parental care and 
love,thatthebetterqualitiesof mind and hear tare most favor- 
ably and surely developed, and the character most success- 
fully formed for the conflicts and temptations of future life. 

Not inconsistent with the manly Virtues. — Nor is the 
gentleness implied in the domestic affections inconsistent 
with those sterner qualities of character, which history ad- 
mires in her truly great and heroic lives. Poets have known 
this, painters have seized upon it, critics have pointed it out 
in the best ideal delineations, both ofapcient and of modem 
times. It softens the gloomy and otherwise forbidding char- 
acter of stern Achilles; it invests with superior beauty, and 
almo'st sacredness, the aged Priam suing for the dead body 
of Hector; it constitutes one of the brightest ornaments with 
which Virffil knew how to adorn the character of the hero 



BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 447 

of the ^neid, while in the affection of Napoleon for his 
son, and in the grief of Cromwell for the death of his 
daughter, the domestic affection shines forth in contrast 
with the strong and troubled scenes of eyentf ul public life, 
as a gentle star glitters on the brow of night. 



§II.-LOVE OF FRIENDS. 

Much said in Praise of Ilriendship. — Among the benevo- 
lent affections that find a place in the human heart, friend- 
ship has ever been regarded as one of the purest and no- 
blest. Poets and moralists have vied with each other in its 
praise. Even those philosophers who have derived all our 
active principles from self-love have admitted this to a place 
among the least selfish of our emotions. There can be no 
doubt that it is a demand of our nature, a part of our ori- 
ginal constitution. The man who, among all his fellows, 
finds no one in whom he delights, and whom he calls his 
friend, must be wanting in some of the best traits and 
qualities of our common humanity, while, on the other 
hand, pure and elevated friendship is a mark of a generous 
and noble mind. 

On what Circumstances it depends. — If we inquire 
whence arises this emotion in any given case, on what prin- 
ciples or circumstances it is founded, we shall find that, 
while other causes have much to do with it, it depends 
chiefly on the inore or less intimate acquaintance of the 
parties. There must, indeed, be on our part some perception 
of high and noble qualities belonging to him whom we call 
our friend, and some appreciation, also, of those qualities. 
We must admire his genius, or his courage, or his manly 
st\'ength and prowess, or his moral virtues, or, at least, his 
position and success. All these things come in to modify 
our estimate and opinion of the man, and may be said to 
underlie our friendship for him. Still, it is not so much 
from these circumstances, as from personal and intimate ac- 



448 BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 

quaintance, that friendship most directly springs. Admira- 
tion and respect for the high qualities and noble character 
of another, are not tliemt^clves friendship, however closely 
related to it. They may be, and doubtless are, to some ex- 
tent, the foundation on which that affection rests, but they 
are not its immediately producing cause. They may exist 
where no opportunity for personal acquaintance is afforded, 
while, on tlie other hand, a simple and long-continued ac- 
quaintance, with one whom we, perhaps, should not, in our 
own candid judgment, pronounce superior to other men, 
either in genius, or fortune, or the nobler qualities of the 
soul, may, neverthlcss, ripen into strong and lasting friend- 
ship. 

How Acquaintance leads to Friendship. — To what is this 
owing ? Not so much, I suspect, to the fact that acquaint- 
ance reveals always something to admire, even in those 
whom we had not previously regarded with special defer- 
ence — although this, 1 am willing to admit, may be the case 
— but rather to that simple law of mental activity which we 
call association. The friend whom we have long and inti- 
mately known, the friend of other, and earlier, and, it may 
be, happier years, is intimately connected with our own 
history. His life and our own have run side by side, or 
rather, like vines springing from separate roots, have inter- 
twined their branches until they present themselves as one 
to the eye. It is this close connection of my friend with 
whatever pertains to myself, of his history with my history, 
and his life with my life, that contributes in great measure 
to the regard and interest I feel for him. He has become, 
as it were, a part of myself. The thought of him awakens 
in my mind pleasing remembrances, and is associated with 
agreeable conceptions of the walks, the studies, the sports, 
the varied enjoyments and the varied sorrows that we have 
shared together. 

Regard for inanimate Objects. — The same principle ex- 
tends also to inanimate objects, as places and scenes with 



BEl^EVOLEKT AFFECTIOIN^S. 449 

which we have become famihar, the meadows through 
Avhich we roamed in childhood, the books we read, the 
rooms we inhabited, even the instruments of our daily toil. 
These all become associated with ourselves, we form a sort 
of friendship for them. The prisoner wiio has spent long 
years of confinement in his solitary cell, forms a species of 
attachment for the very walls that have shut him in, and 
looks upon them for the last time, when at length the hour 
of deliverance arrives, not without a measure of regret. 
The sword that has been often used in battle is thenceforth, 
to the old soldier, the visible representative of many a hard- 
fought field, and many a perilous adventure. Uncouth and 
rusty it may be, ill-formed, and unadorned, in its plain and 
clumsy iron scabbard, but its owner w^ould not exchange it 
for one of solid gold. It is not strange that the princij)le 
of association, which attaches us so closely even to inani- 
mate objects, should enter largely as an element into the 
friendships we form with our own species. 

Other Causes auxiliary. — I would by no means deny, 
however, that other causes may, and usually do, contribute 
to the same result. Mere acq^uaintanceand companionship 
do not, of necessity, nor invariably, amount to friendship. 
There must be some degree of sympathy, and congeniality 
of thought and feeling, some community of interests, pur- 
suits, desires, hopes, something in common between the two 
minds, or no friendship will spring up between them. Ac- 
quaintance, and participation in the same scenes and pur- 
suits, furnish, to some extent, this common ground. But 
even where this previous companionship is wanthig, there 
may exist such congeniality and sympathy between two 
minds, the tastes and feelings, the aims and aspirations of 
each may be so fully in unison, that each shall feel itself 
drawn to the other, with a regard which needs only time 
and opportunity to ripen into strong and lasting friendship. 

Dissimilarity not inconsistent with Friendship. — 'Nov is 
it necessary, in order to true friendship, that there should be 



450 BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 

complete similarity or agreement. The greatest diversity 
even may exist in many respects, whether as to qualities of 
mind, or traits of character. Indeed, such diversity, to some 
extent, must be regarded as favorable to friendship, rather 
than otherwise. We admire, often, in others, the very 
qualities which we perceive to be lacking in ourselves, and 
choose for our friends those whose ricluT endowments in 
these respects may compensate in a measure for our own 
deficiencies. The strongest friendships are often formed in 
this way by persons whose characters present striking points 
of contrast. Such diversity, in respect to natural gifts and 
traits of character, is not inconsistent with the closest sym- 
pathy of views and feelings in regard to other matters, and 
therefore not inconsistent with the warmest friendship. 

Limitation of the Number of Friends. — It was, perhaps, 
an idle question, discussed in the ancient schools of philoso- 
phy, whether true friendship can subsist between more than 
two persons. No reason can be shown why this affection 
should be thus exclusive, nor do facts seem to justify such 
a limitation. The addition of a new friend to the circle of 
my acquaintance does not necessarily detract aught from 
the affection I bear to my former friends, nor does it 
awaken suspicion or jealousy on their part. In this re- 
spect, friendship is unlike the love which exists between 
the sexes, and which is exclusive in its nature. 

It must be admitted, at the same time, that there are 
limits to this extension, and that he who numbers a large 
circle of friends is not likely to form a very strong attach- 
ment for any one of them. Not unfrequently, indeed, a 
friendship thus unlimited is the mark, as Mr. Stcwju't sug- 
gests, of a cold and selfish character, prompted to seek the 
acquaintance of others by a regard to his own advantage, 
and a desire for society, ratlier than by any real attachment 
to those whose companionship he solicits. True and genuine 
friendship is usually more select in it.s choice, and is wliolly 
disinterested in its character. A cold and calculating policy 



BENEVOLENT AFEECTIONS. 451 

forms no part of its nature. It springs from no selfish or 
even prudential considerations. It burns with a pure and 
steady flame in the heart that cherishes it, and burns on 
even when the object of its regard is no longer on earth. 
Our friendships are not all with the living. We cherish 
the memory of tlwse whom we no longer see, and welcome 
to the heart those whom we no longer welcome to our home 
and fireside. 

Effect of adventitious Circumstances. — Ee verses in life, 
changes in fortune, the accidents of health and sickness, of 
wealth and poverty, of station and influence, have little 
power to Aveaken the ties of true friendship once formed. 
They test, but do not impair its strength. True friendship 
only makes us cling the closer to our friend in his adversity; 
and when fortune frowns, and the sunshine of popular favor 
j^asses away, and '^ there is none so poor to do him rever- 
ence," whom once all men courted and admired, we still 
love him, who, in better days, showed himself worthy of 
our love, and who, we feel, is none the less worthy of it, 
now that we must love him for what he is, and not for 
what he has. That is not worthy the name of friendship, 
which will not endure this test. 

Changes in moral Character. — Much more seriously is 
friendship endangered by any change of moral character 
and principle, on the part of either of the friends. So long- 
as the change affects merely the person, the wealth, the 
social position, the power, the good name even, we feel that 
these are but the external circumstances, the accidents, the 
surroundings, and not the man himself, and however these 
things may v^ary, our friend remains the same. But when 
the change is in the heart and character of the man him- 
self, when he whose sympathies and moral sentiments were 
once in unison with our own, shows himself to be no longer 
what he once was, or what we fondly thought him to be, 
there is no longer that community of thought and feeling 
between us that is essential to true and lasting friendship. 



453 BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 

Yet, even in such a case, we continue to cherish for the 
friend of former years a regard and affection which subse- 
quent changes do not wholly efface. We think of him as 
he toas, and not as he is ; as he was in those earlier and 
better days, when the heart was fresh and unspoiled, and 
the feet had not as yet turned aside from the paths of rec- 
titude and honor. 

§ III.-LOVE OF BENEFACTORS. 

As related to Friendship. — Closely allied to the affections 
we feel for our friends is the emotion we cherish towards 
our benefactors. Like the former, it is one of the forms of 
that principle into which all kindly affection ultimately re- 
solves itself, namely, love, differing as the object differs on 
which it rests, but one in nature under all these varieties of 
foiTU. The love which wc feel for a benefactor differs from 
that which we feel for a friend, as the latter again differs 
from that which we feel for a parent or a child. It differs 
from friendship, in that the motive which prompted the 
benefaction, on the part of the giver, may be simple be- 
nevolence, and not personal regard; while, on our part, 
the emotion awakened may be simple gratitude to the gen- 
erous donor, a gratitude which, though it may lead to 
friendship, is not itself the result of personal attachment. 

Nature of this Affection. — If we inquire more closely 
into the nature of this affection, we find that it involves, as 
do all the benevolent affections, a feeling of pleasure or de- 
light, together with a benevolent regard for the object on 
which the affection rests. The pleasure, in this case, results 
from the reception of a favor. It is not, however, merely a 
pleasure in the favor received, as in itself valuable, or as 
meeting our necessities ; it is, over and beyond this, a pleasure 
in the giver as a noble and generous person, and as stand- 
ing in friendly relations to us. Such conceptions are always 
agreeable to the mind, and that in a high degree. The 
benevolent regard which we cherish for such a person, the 



BEKEVOLEKT AFFECTIOI^S. 453 

disposition and wish to do him good in turn, are the natu- 
ral result of this agreeable conception of him ; and the two 
together, the pleasure, and the benevolent regard, consti- 
tute the complex emotion which we call gratitude. 

Regards the Giver rather than the Gift. — If this be the 
correct analysis of .the affection now under consideration, it 
is not so much the gift, as the giver, that awakens the emo- 
tion ; and this view is confirmed by the fact that when, from 
any circumstances, we are led to suspect a selfish motive on 
the part of the donor, that the gift was prompted, not so 
much by regard to us, as by regard to his own personal 
ends, for favors thus conferred we feel very little gratitude. 
The gift maybe the same in either case, but not the giver. 

Modes of manifesting Gratitude. — Philosophers have 
noticed the different manner in which persons of different 
character, and mental constitution, are affected by the re- 
ception of kindness from others, and the different modes 
in which their gratitude expresses itself. Some are much 
more sensibly affected than others by the same acts of 
kindness ; and even when gratitude may exist in equal de- 
gree, it is not always equally manifested. We naturally 
look, however, for some exhibition of it, in all cases, where 
favors have been conferred ; its due exhibition satisfies and 
pleases us ; its absence gives us pain, and we set it down as 
indicative of a cold and selfish nature. 

A disordered Sensibility indicated by the Absence of this 
Principle. — One of the most painful forms of disordered 
sensibility — the insanity, not of the intellect, but of the 
feelings — is that which manifests itself in the entire indif- 
ference and apathy with which the kindest attentions are 
received, or even worse, the ill-concealed and hardly-sup- 
pressed hatred which is felt even for the generous benefac- 
tor. A case of this sort is mentioned by Dr. Bell, the ac- 
complished superintendent of the MacLean Asylum for the 
insane, as coming under his notice, in which the patient, a 
lady, by no means wanting in mental endowments, seemed 



454 BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 

utterly destitute and incapable of natural affection. Hav- 
ing, on one occasion, received some mark of kindness from 
a devoted friend, she exclaimed, "I suppose I ought to love 
that person, and I should, if it were possible for me to luve 
any one ; but it is not. I do not know what that feeling 
is." A more sad and wretched existence can hardly be con- 
ceived than that which is thus indicated — the deep night 
and winter of the soul, a gloom unbroken by one ray of 
kindly feeling for any living thing, one gleam of sunshine 
on the darkened heart. Happily such cases are of rare oc- 
currence. The kindness of men awakens a grateful re- 
sponse, in every human heart, whose right and normal 
action is not hindered by disorder, or prevented by crime. 

Disorder of the moral Nature. — Is it not an indication of 
the imperfect and disordered condition of our moral nature, 
that while the little kindnesses of our fellow-men awaken in 
our breasts lively emotions of gratitude, we receive, un- 
moved, the thousand benefits which the great Author of our 
being is daily and hourly conferring, with little gratitude 
to the giver of every good and perfect gift ? 

§ IV.-LOVE OF HOME AND COUNTRY. 

Its proper Place. — Among the emotions which consti- 
tute our sensitive nature, the love of home and of country, 
or the patriotic emotion, holds a prominent rank. It falls 
into that class of feelings which we term affections, inas- 
much as it involves not only an emotion of pleasure, but 
a desire of good towards the object which awakens the 
feeling*. 

Founded on the Separation of the Race. — The affection 
now to be considered implies, as its condition, the separa- 
tion of the human race into families, tribes, and nations, 
and of its dwelling-places into corresponding divisions of 
territory and country, a division founded not more in hu- 
man nature, than in the physical conditions and distribu- 



BEKEVOLENT AFFECTION'S. 455 

tions of the globe, broken as it is into different countries, 
by mountain, river, and sea. No one can fail to perceive, 
in this arrangement, a design and provision for the distri- 
bution of the race into distinct states and nations. To this 
arrangement and design the nature of man corresponds. To 
him, m all his wanderings, there is no place like home, no 
land like his native land. It may be barren and rugged, 
swept by the storms, and overshadowed by the frozen hills, 
of narrow boundary, and poor in resources, where life is but 
one continued struggle for existence with an inhospitable 
climate, unpropitious seasons, and an unwilling soil ; but 
it is his own land, it is his fatherland, and sooner than he 
will see its soil invaded, or its name dishonored, he will 
shed the last drop of blood in its defence. 

Other Causes auxiliary. — The strong tendency to rivalry 
and w^ar, between different tribes, tends, doubtless, to keep 
alive the patriotic sentiment, by binding each more closely 
to the soil, which it is obliged to defend at the sacrifice 
of treasure, and of life. The great diversity of language, 
manners, and customs, which prevails among different na- 
tions, must also tend very strongly to separate nations still 
more widely from each other, and bind them more closely 
to their own soil, and their own institutions. 

Effect of Civilization. — Such are some of the causes 
which give rise to the patriotic sentiment. Civilization 
tends, in a measure, doubtless, to diminish the activity of 
these causes. In proportion as society advances, as national 
jealousies and rivalries diminish, as wars become less fre- 
quent, as nations come to understand better each other's 
manners, laws, and languages, and to learn that their in- 
terests, apparently diverse, are really identical, this progress 
of civilization and culture, removing, as it does, in great 
measure, the barriers that have hitherto kept nations asun- 
der, must tend, it would seem, to weaken the influence of 
those causes which contribute to keep alive the patriotic 
feeling. And such we believe to be the fact. It is in the 



456 B E X E V O L K N T AFFECTIONS. 

early period of a nation's existence, the period of its origin 
and growth, of its weakness and danger, that the love of 
country most strongly devclopes itself. It is then that 
sacrifices are most cheerfully made, and danger and toil 
most readily met, and life most freely given, for the state 
whose fonndations can no other way be laid. As the state, 
thus founded in treasure and in blood, and vigilantly 
guarded in its infancy, gains maturity and strength, be- 
comes rich, and great, and powerful, comes into honorable 
relation with the surrounding states and nations, the love 
of country seems not to keep pace with its growth in the 
hearts of the people, but rather to diminish, as there is less 
frequent and less urgent occasion for its exercise. 

National Pride. — There is, however, a counteracting ten- 
dency to be found in the national pride which is awakened 
by the prosperity and power of a country, and especially by 
its historic greatness. The citizen of England, or of France, 
at the present day, has more to defend, and more to love, 
than merely his own home and fireside, the soil that he cul- 
tivates, and the institutions that guarantee his freedom and 
his rights. The past is intrusted to him, as well as the 
present. The land whose honor and integrity he is deter- 
mined to maintain, at all hazard and personal sacrifice, is 
not the England, or the France, of to-day merely, but of 
the centuries. He remembers the glories of the empire, 
the armies, and the illustrious leaders that have carried his 
country's flag with honor into all lands, the monarchs that, 
in succession, from Clovis and Charlemagne, from Alfred 
and Harold the dauntless, have sat in state upon the throne 
that claims his present allegiance, the generations that have 
contributed to make his country what it now^ is; and lie 
feels that not merely the present greatness and power of 
his country, but all its former greatness and glory, are in- 
trusted to his present care and keeping. 

Depends upon Association. —If we inquire more closely 
into the philoso])iiy of the matter, we shall find, 1 think, 



BEKEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 457 

that the principle of association is largely concerned as the 
immediate producing cause of the emotion now under con- 
sideration. We connect with the idea of any country the 
history and fortunes, the virtues and vices of its inhabitants, 
of those who, at any time, recent or remote, have passed 
their brief day, and acted their brief part, vv^ithin its bor- 
ders, and whose unknown dust mingles with its soil. They 
have long since passed away, but the same hills stand, the 
same rivers flow along the came channels, the same ocean 
washes the ancient shores, the same skies look down upon 
those fields and waters, and with these aspects and objects 
of nature we associate all that is great and heroic in the 
history of the people that once dwelt among those hills, and 
along those shores. Every lofty mountain, every majestic 
river, every craggy cliff and frowning headland along the 
coast, stand as representative objects, sacred to the memory 
of the past, and the great deeds that have been there per- 
formed. How much this must add to the force and power 
of the patriotic emotion is obvious at a glance. 

Same Principle concerned in the Love of Home. — In like 
manner, by the same principle of association, we connect 
our own personal history with the places where we dwell, 
and the country we inhabit. They become, in a measure, 
identified with ourselves. To love the home of our child- 
hood, and our native land, is but to love our former selves, 
since it is here that our little history lies, and whatever we 
have wrought of good or ill. 

An original Principle. — With respect to the character of 
this emotion, while it is doubtless awakened and strength- 
ened by the law of association, still I cannot but regard it 
as an original provision and principle of our nature, spring- 
ing up instinctively in the bosom, showing itself essentially 
the same under all conditions of society, and in all ages and 
countries. It waits not for education to call it forth, nor 
for reason and reflection to give it birth ; while at the same 
20 



458 BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 

time, reason aiul reflection doubtless contribute largely to 
its development and strength. 

Strongest where it might be least expected.— It has been 
frequently observed, by those who have made human nature 
their study, that the jDatriotic feeling is not confined to the 
inhabitants of the most favored climes and countries, but, on 
the contrary, is often most strongly developed in nations less 
populous, and in countries little favored by nature. The 
inhabitants of wild, mountainous regions, of sterile shores, 
of barren plains, manifest as strong a love of home and 
country, as any people on the globe. It is thus with the 
Swiss among their mountain fastnesses, and with the poor 
Esquimaux of northern Greenland, where, be3"ond the arctic 
circle, cold and darkness reign undisturbed the greater part 
of the year. Even in those dreary realms, and in those 
bosoms little refined, the voice of nature is heard, and the 
love of home and of country is strong. Even beggars have 
been known to die of nostalgia, or home-sickness. 



CHAPTEH IK 

MALEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 

As distinguished from the Benevolent. — The affections 
have already been distinguished from other forms of the 
sensibility, by the circumstance that they involve, along 
with the feeling of pleasure or pain, some feeling of kind- 
ness or the opposite, toward the object ; in the one case we 
term them benevolent, in the other, malevolent affections. 
Of the former, I have treated in the preceding chapter ; of 
the latter, I am now to speak. 

Resentment the generic Name. — These affections may be 
comi)ri.scd under the general name resenfmetd, as that which 
underlies and constitutes the basis; of them all. Envy, jeal- 



MALEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 459 

ousj, revenge, etc., may be regarded as but so many modi- 
fications, or perversions, of this general principle. As the 
benevolent affections are all so many forms of love, going 
forth toward diverse objects, and varying as the objects 
vary, so the malevolent affections are so many forms of the 
opposite principje, i. e., aversion, varying, likewise, with 
the objects. 

Founded in Nature. — As the benevolent, so likewise the 
malevolent or irascible feelings are, as to their principle, in- 
stinctive ; they have their foundation in our nature. They 
are, as such, universally exhibited under the appropriate 
circumstances ; they are early in their development, show- 
ing themselves often prior to the exercise of the reflecting 
and reasoning powers ; they are, also, to some extent, com- 
mon to man with the brutes. 

Capable, however, of rational Exercise and Control. — 
While we pronounce them instinctive, however, we would 
by no means imply that they are not capable of being de- 
liberately and intelligently exercised, or that they are not 
in fact, frequently so exercised. What instinct originally 
teaches, reason and reflection, when, at a later date; they 
come into play, may sanction and confirm. On the other 
hand, they may repress and forbid what instinct prompts. 
In the former case, the emotion, affection, passion, is none 
the less an instinctive principle in its nature and origin, al- 
though it has now passed from the domain of mere instinct 
to the higher sphere of reason and intelligence. What was 
done in the first instance from sudden impulse, blindly, with- 
out thought, is now done deliberately and intelligently. 
This may be the case with all our instinctive principles of 
action, as well as with those now particularly under con- 
sideration. Instinct and reason, or intelligence, though dis- 
tinguished from, are not necessarily opposed to each other, 
in the sense that one and the same mental act may not pro- 
ceed, now from one, now from the other, of these princi- 
ples. The love which I cherish for my friends, or my kin- 



460 MALEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 

dred, may be purely instinctive, it may be strictly rational, 
a matter of reflection, the result of deliberate purpose. 

Existence of such a Principle denied by some. — The ex- 
istence of such a principle as resentment, among the original 
and constitutional elements of our nature, has been called in 
question by some writers. It has been thought derogatory 
to the divine character, that the Creator should implant the 
principle of resentment in the human heart. He com- 
mands us to love, and not to hate, and what he expressly 
forbids, he cannot have made provision for in the very con- 
stitution of the mind. Such a principle, it is also main- 
tained, is altogether unnecessary. This is the ground taken 
by Mr. Winslow, in his work on moral philosophy. 

The Question at Issue. — There is certainly much force in 
the view thus presented. The question before us, however, 
is not, what we might, a priori, have supposed the nature of 
man to be, nor, what it ought to be, but simply, what is 
that nature as a matter of fact ? Whether such a principle 
as resentment is necessary in a well-constituted mind, is 
not now the question ; nor yet whether the Creator could 
consistently implant such a principle within us; nor, again, 
what may be the moral character of such a principle ; but 
simply, Is there such a principle among the native elements 
of human character ? If it be found there, we may con- 
clude, either that the Creator has placed it there for some 
wise purpose, or else that the nature with which man comes 
into the world is no longer an adequate expression of the 
will of the Creator concerning him, but has, in some way, 
lost its original purity and integrity. 

Existence of such a Principle. — Now, that there are cer- 
tain irascible feelings which find a place, under certain cir- 
cumstances, in the human bosom, whenever the fitting occa- 
sion calls them forth, can hardly be denied; nor yet that 
they have their foundation in the nature of man. We have 
the same evidence of this, that we have of the existx^nce of 
any other original and native i)rin('ii)lc'. It manifests itself 



MALEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 461 

universally, uniformly, under all the yarieties of social con- 
dition, among all nations, in all ages of the world. It de- 
velops itself at an early period of life, before education or 
example can have come in to account for its existence. 
Ecason may subsequently control and restrain it, or it may 
fail to do so ; but the principle exists before it can be either 
indulged or restrained. When the occasion which calls it 
forth is some injury or evil inflicted upon ourselves, the 
feeling takes the name of resentment ; when others are the 
objects of that injustice, the feeling awakened is more 
properly termed indignation. We resent our own wrongs, 
we are indignant at those of others. The pi'inciple is, in 
either case, the same, and is as trul}^ a part of our nature, 
as gratitude for favors received, or sympathy with the sor- 
rows of the afflicted. 

Term Malevolent, how employed. — The term malevolent, 
as used to designate this class of affections, is, it must be 
confessed, liable to serious objection. It has come into use 
as a convenient term, in place of, and for the want of, 
something better, to mark the distinction between the feel- 
ings now under consideration, and those of the opposite 
character, already considered ; and as we call those benevo- 
lent, so we call these malevolent, merely by way of contrast, 
and not as implying anything criminal in the character of 
the emotions themselves. The terra, however, is unfor- 
tunate, as seeming to involve a meaning not intended. The 
moral character of the affections thus designated, is an 
open question, to be decided upon its own merits, and not 
to be considered as settled, one v/ay or the other, by the 
use of the term now under consideration. This question 
Ave shall presently discuss. For the present, we have to 
consider, more particularly, the several forms in which the 
malevolent or irascible feeling presents itself. 

Nature of Resentment. — Resentment is the feeling awak- 
ened in view of injury received. It is precisely the opposite 
of gratitude, which is the feeling awakened by benefits con- 



462 MALEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 

f erred. As, in the latter case, there springs up at once in 
the heart an affectionate regard for the generous donor, so, 
in the former, there is awakened at once a feehng of resent- 
ment against those who have done us the wrong. It is an 
instinctive emotion. No sooner are we conscious of the in- 
jury than we are conscious also of the feeling of resentment. 

Design of this Principle. — The design of this princli)le 
of our nature is evident. It arms us against those sudden 
dangers and assaults, which no foresight can anticipate, nor 
prudence prevent, and which, when they occur, require in- 
stant action, and prompt redress. In such cases, reason and 
reflection would come to our aid too late ; were we left to 
their counsels, however wise those counsels might be, we 
should already have suffered the injury from which they 
would seek to protect us. Something is needed that shall 
prompt to speedier action ; some watchman vigilant and 
armed, ready on the first approach of danger to strike his 
alarm-bell, and summon the garrison to action. This we 
have in the principle of resentment. Were it not for this 
principle, moreover, a#oautious and timid policy might often 
prevail over the sense of justice, and honor, ^d right, or 
a selfish policy might keep us back from interfering, at our 
own peril, for the protection of the injured, and the pun- 
ishment of the aggressor. Instinct sets us right in such 
matters, before reason has time to act. 

Necessary to the Punishment of Crime. — The malevolent 
feeling, at least in the form now under consideration, seems 
to be, in some degree, necessary for the })unishment of 
crime, and tlie protection of society. It may be dou])ted 
whether, without it, we sliould act with sufficient energy, 
and promptness, for the redress of wrong, when that wrong 
is not inflicted upon ourselves. Nature has guarded against 
this danger, by planting in tlie human l)osom an innate sense 
of justice, a hatred of wrong and injury wantonly inflicted, 
and a qui('k resentment against (he })orpetrator, which leads 
us to seek his detection and punishment, silences the plead- 



MALEVOLENT AFFECTIOKS. 463 

ings of compassion in his behalf, and arms us to inflict the 
merited blow. That is but a weak and short-sighted be- 
nevolence, that is incapable of hatred of crime, and crimi- 
nals ; and that, under the flimsy pretence of compassion for 
the unfortunate, and humanity, would shield from justice, 
and due punishment, those who strike at the highest inter- 
ests of society, and put in jeopardy all that is most dear 
and sacred to man. There are cases, in which compassion 
becomes malice aforethought, and stern resentment is the 
only true beneyolence. It is one of the sublimest and most 
glorious attributes of deity, as portrayed in the Scriptures, 
that with the highest benevolence he combines the stern, 
inflexible hatred of wrong, so that, while it can with truth 
be said, "God is love," it can with equal truth be affirmed, 
^*our God is a consuming fire." 

Liable to abuse. — While, however, the principle now con- 
sidered has its uses, and must be regarded as a most im- 
portant provision of nature for the necessities of our race, 
it must also be conceded that it is a principle liable to 
abuse, and requiring to be kept in careful check. Espe- 
cially in its sudden and instinctive action, upon the recep- 
tion of personal harm or danger, are we liable to be carried 
to extremes, and indulge a resentment out of proportion to 
the merits of the case. 

A Check on excessive Resentment. — Against this exces- 
sive resentment of injuries, real or imaginary, nature has 
provided a check needful and salutary, in the indignation 
with which any such manifestation is sure to be regarded 
by others, and the loss of that sympathy, otherwise on our 
side, but now turned in favor of the object of our too great 
resentment. The wise and prudent man will carefully avoid 
such a result, and this prudence will act as a powerful curb 
on his anger. To the man of virtuous and honorable senti- 
ments there is also another restraint, hardly less powerful, 
upon the exercise of the malevolent feeling in any undue 
degree, and that is, the feeling of self-degradation and 



464 MALEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 

liumiliatiou wliich sucli a man must feel, in consequence 
of his excessive resentment, when the heat of passion cools, 
and the moments of calmer reflection ensue. Even as ex- 
ercised within due bounds, the malevolent affection is, from 
its very nature, a painful one. Not only the first emotion 
on the reception of injury or insult is one of a disagreeable 
nature, but the wish or desire, which instantly follows and 
accompanies it, of inflicting in return some ill upon the 
aggressor, is also a feehng which disturbs and disquiets the 
mind, and inflicts a species of suffering upon the mind that 
cherishes it, that may not improperly be termed its own 
punishment. And this again may be regarded, and doubt- 
less is, to some extent, a check upon the indulgence of the 
malevolent affection. 

Violent Exhibitions of this Feeling, where found. — It is 
accordingly in natures uncultivated and rude, little accus- 
tomed to self-control, and the restraints of reason and re- 
ligion, that we naturally look for the violent and excessive 
outbursts of passion., A regard for our own happiness, a 
due sense of our own dignity and moral worth, and a de- 
cent respect for the opinions of those about us, whose ap- 
probation and sympathy we desire, contribute, if not to 
diminish the strength, at least to repress the manifestation, 
in any considerable degree, of the feeling of resentment, 
in those who have arrived at years of discretion, and have 
profited by the lessons of experience. The child is angry 
with the stone against which he strikes his foot, and vents 
his resentment for any injury upon the unconscious instru- 
ment, which was the means of its infliction. The savage 
tears from his flesh the arrow that has wounded him, and 
breaks it into fragments. This is undoubtedly the instinct 
of nature, untaught by reason and reflection. It is prob- 
ably the first impulse of every man, on the reception of 
any injury, and before he has time to reflect on the folly of 
such a course, to express in some manner his resentment 
against the immediate instrument of his suflcring. 



MALEVOLEKT AFFECTIONS. 465 

Deliberate Form of Resentment. — When the first impulse 
has passed, and time gives opportunity for reflection, this 
instinctive resentment dies away, or gives place to a delib- 
erate and rational form of the same emotion. Thus af- 
fected, the mind casts about it to ascertain the real extent 
of its injury, and -the best means of redress ; it distinguishes 
between the conscious agent, and the unconscious instru- 
ment of its wrong, between the intentional injury and the 
unintentional, and, it may be, accidental harm ; it takes into 
view the circumstances of the case, and the probable mo- 
tives of the doer, and graduates its resentment accordingly. 

Illustration of deliberate Resentment. — The law of retal- 
iation which prevails among savage tribes, and which de- 
mands blood for blood, life for life, and exacts the fearful 
penalty with a justice inexorable and sure, though often 
long delayed, and which never loses sight of its victim, 
though years, and broad lands, and wide waters intervene, 
affords an illustration of deliberate in distinction from in- 
stinctive resentment. The law of honor, so called, as it-exists 
among civilized nations, also illustrates the same principle. 

Pointed out by Butler and others. — The distinction 
which we have indicated between the instinctive and de- 
liberate form of this emotion was clearly pointed out by 
Butler, though by no means original with him, as some 
writers have supposed; it is quite too obvious and import- 
ant a distinction to have escaped the notice of earlier, and 
even of ancient philosophers, nor is it at all peculiar to this 
one affection, but common to all the sensibilities, as I have 
already said. 

Modifications of the general Principle. — There are certain 
modifications of the malevolent affections, which require a 
passing notice in this connection. I refer to those emotions 
commonly known as envy, jealousy, and revenge. These 
are all but different forms of the same general principle, 
varying as the different circumstances and objects vary 
which call them forth. 
20* 



406 MALEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 

Nature of Envy. — Envy is that, form of resentment which 
too often, and loo easily, finds a place in the human bosom, 
when another is more fortunate, more successful, more hon- 
ored and esteemed, than ourselves. Especially is this the 
case, when the fortunate one is from our own circle of com- 
panionship, and our own rank in life, and when the honors 
and distinctions, or the wealth and power, that fall to his 
lot are such as we might ourselves have aspired to reach. 
We never, I suspect, envy those whose condition is, and 
originally was, very far removed from our own. The 
peasant envies not the lord of the realm, nor the beggar 
the king, but rather his fellow-peasant, or fellow-beggar, 
whose hut is warmer, and whose ragged garment not so 
ragged, as his own. It is the passion of a weak and nar- 
row mind, a mean and degrading emotion, the opposite of 
every thing noble and generous. 

Nature of Jealousy. — Jealoiisy is that form of the ma- 
levolent affection which has relation more particularly, 
though not exclusively, to the attachment which exists be- 
tween the sexes, and which is awakened by the supposed 
rivalry of another. It is one of the most painful of the ma- 
levolent affections, and, when thoroughly roused, one of the 
strongest and most powerful principles of our nature. It is 
thepeculiarity of this passion, that the object of its suspicion 
and resentment is, at the same time, the object of the heart's 
deepest love, and, it may be, adoration ; the strength and bit- 
terness of the passion being in proportion to the fervor and 
earnestness of that affection. In the character of Othello, 
Ave have a fine delineation of the working and development 
of this trait of human character, as in Cassius we have a 
portraiture of the corresponding affection of envy. 

Nature of Revenge. — Revenge h rQSQwimQ.nt in its most 
deliberate form, phmned and carried into execution, not for 
the prevention of crime or injury, nor yet with reference 
to the ends of justice, but for the simple gratification of 
personal hatred. As such, and springing from such a motive, 



MALEVOLEKT AFFECTIONS. 467 

it is usually excessive in degree, and malicious in charac- 
ter. It is a dark and deadly passion, not more dangerous 
to society than degrading to the bosom that harbors it. It 
has not one redeeming quality to recommend it. It is 
neither the mark of a noble and generous, nor yet of a 
manly and brave spirit. It is the offspring of fear, rather 
than of courage. It usually seeks to accomplish, by secret 
and unlawful means, what it is ashamed or afraid to do 
openly, and by fair and honorable measures. It is a pas- 
sion closely allied to those which may be supposed to reign 
in the bosom of a fiend. 

dualifying Remark. — I have spoken of envy, jealousy, 
and revenge, as modifications or different forms of the gen- 
eral principle of resentment, or the irascible propensity. 
There is, however, one important respect in which they all 
differ from the parent principle from which they spring. 
The latter, resentment, while founded in our nature, may, 
in exercise, be either instinctive or deliberate, as already 
shown ; the former imply, I suspect, always some degree of 
deliberation, some element of choice. They are natural, in 
so far as there is a tendency in our nature to the exercise of 
these feelings under given circumstances, and, inasmuch as 
the principle from which they spring is founded in our na- 
ture, as one of its original elements ; but they are not, like 
that principle, sometimes instinctive in their operation, but 
always, on the contrary, involve, as it seems to me, some 
process of thought, reflection, deliberation, choice. 

Moral Character of the malevolent Affections. — It has 
been a question, much discussed, whether the class of feel- 
ings under consideration, in the present chapter, has any 
moral character, and if so, luliat 9 The question pertains, 
perhaps, more properly, to moral than to mental science ; 
but we cannot pass it entirely without notice in this connec- 
tion. So far as regards those forms of the malevolent emo- 
tion last considered, envy, jealousy, and revenge, there can 
be little doubt. Their exercise involves, as already stated. 



468 MALEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 

Fometliing of reflection and choice. They are not instinc- 
tive, hut" voluntary in their operation, capable, therefore, of 
control, and if not subjected to the stern dominion of rea- 
son, if not checked and subdued by the higher principles 
that should ever govern our conduct, we are reprehensible. 
Their indulgence in any form, and to any degree, must be 
regarded as blameworthy. They are perversions of that 
principle of resentment, which, for wise reasons, nature 
has implanted in our bosoms. Their tendency is evil, and 
only evil. They are malevolent in the full and proper sense 
of that term. 

Of simple Resentment.— As to the primary principle of 
resentment in its simple and proper form, in so far as its 
operation is deliberate and voluntary, rather than purely 
instinctive, implying the exercise of reflection and reason, 
it must possess, in common with all other mental acts of 
that nature, some moral character. Within due limits, and 
on just occasions, it is a virtue ; when it passes those limits, 
when it becomes excessive, or is uncalled for, by the cir- 
cumstances of the case, it becomes a vice. 

Of Resentment as instinctive. — The question before us 
properly relates to that form of resentment which is purely 
instinctive, unaccompanied by the exercise of reason and the 
reflective powers. Has such an emotion, strictly speaking, 
any moral character? How far are we responsible for its 
exercise ? It seems to be a principle of manifest justice, and 
accordant with the common sense of mankind, that a man 
should be held responsible only for his rational and volun- 
tary acts, for such things as it lies in his power to do, or not 
to do, according as he chooses. But that which is mirely 
instinctive, is certainly not of this character. It may be in 
my power to repress the feeling of resentment that arises in 
my bosom on the reception of manifest injustice and wrong ; 
I may refuse to harbor such a feeling; I may struggle to 
rise above it ; but the feeling itself is instinctive, and I can 
no more prevent its iiist awakening and impulse, than I can 



MALEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 469 

prevent the involuntary contraction of tlie muscles upon 
the incision of the surgeon's knife. 

Views of others— TJpham, Reid, Chalmers. — Such is the 
view now generally entertained, we believe, by psycholo- 
gists. ** Instinctive resentment," says Mr. Upham, '^has 
no moral character." "A moral character attaches only 
to the voluntary form of resentment." The same may be 
said of other affections, and of the sensibilities generally. 
In so far as they are purely instinctive, they have no moral 
character. 

Dr. Eeid, in his Active Powers of the Human Mind, holds 
this language, " Nothing in which the will is not concerned 
can justly be accounted either virtuous or immoral." The 
practice of all criminal courts, and all enlightened nations, 
he adds, is founded upon this principle; insomuch, ^^ that 
if any judicature in any nation should find a man guilty, 
and the object of punishment, for what they allow to be al- 
together involuntary, all the world would condemn them 
as men who knew nothing of the first and most fundamen- 
tal rules of justice." 

Dr. Chalmers claims for the principle now under consid- 
eration a place among the primary and universal moral 
judgments of mankind. " It is in atteuding to these pop- 
ular, or rather universal decisions, that we learn the real 
principles of moral science. And the first, certainly, of 
these popular, or rather universal decisions is, that nothing 
is moral or immoral that is not voluntary. 

"That an action, then, be the rightful object either of 
moral censure or approval, it must have had the consent of 
the will to go along with it. It must be the fruit of a voli- 
tion, else it is utterly beyond the scope, either of praise for 
its virtuousness, or of blame for its criminality. If an ac- 
tion be involuntary, it is as unfit a subject for any moral 
reckoning, as are the pulsations of the wrist." 

(Sketches of Moral and Mental Philosophy, Chapter V., 
On the Morality of the Emotions.) 



SENSIBILITIES 



■<n>- 



PART THIRD. 
THE DESIRES 



DESIRES. 

CHAPTEH i. 

NATURE AND CLASSIFICATION OF DESIRES. 

General Character of Desire.— What we enjoy we love, 
and what we enjoy and love, becomes, when no longer pres- 
ent, or when, although yet present, its future absence is re- 
garded as probable, an object of desire. In the latter case 
it is perhaps more properly the continuance of the loved ob- 
ject, rather than the object itself, that is desired. Strictly 
speaking, we desire only that which is not in possession, and 
which is regarded as good and agreeable. More frequently 
the objects of desire are those things which, in some meas- 
ure, we have actually enjoyed, and learned by experience 
how to prize. In many cases, however, we learn in other 
ways than by our own experience the value of an object; 
we gather it from observation, from the testimony of others, 
partly, perhaps, from imagination ; and in such cases what 
is known or supposed to be agreeable and a good thing, 
though never, perhaps, actually enjoyed by ourselves, may 
be an object of desire. Thus I may desire wealth, or power, 
long before they come into my possession to be enjoyed. 
The felicities which await the righteous in the future may 
be distinct and definite objects of desire, while yet we are 
pilgrims on the earth, and have not seen " the land that is 
very far off." Even in the cases supposed, however, we 
have enjoyed, to some extent, if not the very same, yet 
similar objects ; we have experienced something, though it 



474 NATURE AND CLASSIFICATION 

may be on a small scale, of the advantages which wealth 
and power confer, while in our enjoyment of earthly hap- 
piness there is doubtless something on which the imagina- 
tion can build its more glorious anticipations of the future, 
and it is this enjoyment and realization of a present or a 
past good, that constitutes the foundation of our desires. 
If we had never enjoyed aught, it may be doubted whether 
we should ever desire aught. 

Law of the Sensibility. — The great law of the sensibility, 
then, may be thus stated, as regards the order and relation 
of the several classes of emotion to each other : I enjoy, I 
love, I desire ; and the reverse, I suffer, I dislike, I cherish 
aversion. That such is the order or law of mental opera- 
tion has been ably shown by Damiron in his Cours de Phi- 
losophic, and also, before him by Jouffroy. 

Conditions of Desire. — Desire is a feeling simple and in- 
definable. We can merely specify the conditions which it 
observes, and the occasions on which it is awakened. These 
conditions or occasions are the two already mentioned ; the 
previous enjoyment, in some degree, of an agreeable object, 
and the present or contemplated absence of that object. 
Where these conditions are fulfilled, desire springs np at 
once in the mmd, a desire proportioned to the degree of 
that previous enjoyment, and the strength of the affection 
thereby awakened in our minds for the object of our 
regard. 

Opposite of Desire, Aversion. — The opposite of desire is 
aversion, the feeling that arises in view of an object not as 
agreeable but as disagreeable, not as a good but as an ill. 
This, too, like desire, is based upon some measure of ex- 
perience ; we have suffered somewhat of real or imagined 
ill, which, while it continues, is an object of dislike or ha- 
tred, and, regarded as something which, though now absent, 
may possibly be realized in the future, becomes an object of 
aversion. Aversion, as well as its opposite, desire, finds its 
object in the future, while its basis lies in the past. 



OF DESIKES. 475 

It will not be necessary to treat particularly of our aver- 
sions as a distinct class of emotions, since they are, for 
the most part, simply the counterparts of our desires, the 
desire of life, or happiness, having its equivalent in the 
aversion which we feel to suffering, and to death; so of 
other desires. 

Desire always preceded by Emotion. — With regard to 
the nature of desires, it may further be remarked that 
while they imply always an object, an agreeable object, and 
that an absent one ; while they imply, also, some previous 
enjoyment of that now absent object, or, at least, some 
knowledge of its existence and adaptation to our wants, as 
the foundation on which they rest, they do not take their 
rise immediately from the simple perception or intellectual 
contemplation of that absent object, as presented again 
merely to thought or imagination, but always some emo- 
tion or affection is first awakened by such thought or per- 
ception, and the desire succeeds to, and springs out of, that 
emotion. The mere perception of the object which for- 
merly pleased me, does not, of itself, awaken in me imme- 
diately a desire for the object, but first an emotion or affec- 
tion, and from that arises the desire. 

Permanence of the Desires. — The greater permanence 
which our desires seem to possess, as compared with other 
simple emotions and affections, and which has been some- 
times regarded as a distinguishing characteristic of this 
class of feelings, is owing, probably, not so much to the 
nature of desire, in itself considered, as to the fact that the 
object desired is always an absent object, and so long as it 
so remains, the desire for it is likely to continue. Were 
our desires always gratified as soon as they are definitely 
known, they would be no more permanent than any other 
state of mind. * 

Desire a motive Power. — The desires, it is to be noticed, 
moreover, are, in their nature, motive powers, springs of 
action to the mind. They are, if not the only, at least the 



470 NATURE AND CLASSIFICATION, ETC. 

chief source of mental activity. They prompt and excite 
the mind to action. The faculties, both physical and men- 
tal, are, in a manner, subject to their control. The intel- 
lect itself leads not to action ; nor do the emotions; they 
agitate the mind, but it is- only as they awaken desire, and 
that desire fixes upon a definite object, possible, but not in 
possession, that mind and body are both aroused to go forth 
for the attainment of the absent object of desire. 

Classification of Desires. — Our desires may be classed ac- 
cording to their objects. These are of two sorts or classes : 
those which pertain to the physical nature and constitu- 
tion, and those which relate to the wants of the mind rather 
than of the body. The desires, accordingly, may be classed 
as twofold — the animal^ and the rational ; the former hav- 
ing their source in the physical constitution of man, the 
latter in the nature and w^ants of the mind, rather than of 
the body. Of the former class are the desire of food, of 
sex, of exertion, of repose, of wiiatever, in a word, is 
adapted to the animal nature and wants. Of the latter 
class, the more prominent are the desire of happiness, of 
knowledge, of power, of society, of the esteem of others. 

In connection with our desires are to be considered also 
those emotions which are known under the name of hope 
and fear, and which, as was stated in our previous analysis 
of the sensibilities, are to be regarded rather as modifica- 
tions of desire, than as distinct principles or modes of 
mental activity. 



CHAPTEH IK 

DESIRES ARISING FROM THE PHYSICAL 
. CONSTITUTION. 

Nature of Appetite as compared with other Forms of 
Desire. — These are usually called ajjpetites, in distinction 
from those desires which are founded in the nature of the 
mind. They are, however, properly a class of desires, 
though not always so ranked by philosophical writers. They 
are feelings which arise always in view of some good, real 
or supposed, which has its adaptation to the wants oi our 
nature, but which is not in present possession. This absence 
creates a longing for the object, which longing, so far as it 
relates to the mind at all, and not merely to the muscular 
sensation — as of hunger, etc. — is purely a desire. It differs 
from the other desires, in the respect mentioned, that it takes 
its rise from the constitution and wants of the body, rather 
than of the mind. It is not, however, on this account, the 
less a mental state, a psychological phenomenon. 

Ambiguity of the Term. — The term appetite is ambigu- 
ous ; sometimes denoting the uneasy physical sensations, as 
hunger, thirst, etc., which are conditions of the muscular 
and nervous systems, and not states of the mind ; some- 
times the mental condition which results from this, and 
which is properly called desire. It is only with the latter 
that psychology has to do ; the former fall within the prov • 
ince of physiology. 

Enumeration of the more important, and the End accom- 
plished by each. — The desires, of the class to which we now 
refer, are various, comprehending all those which imme- 
diately relate to, and arise from, the various bodily wants. 
The more important are the desire of food, and of sex, to 
which may be added the desire of action, and of repose. 



478 DESIRES ARISING FROM 

The constitution of our physical system is such as to lay the 
foundation of these desires. They pertain to our animal 
nature, and, as such, have a most important part to perform 
in the economy of life. They all relate, directly or indi- 
rectly, to the continuance of life, whether that of the indi- 
vidual, or of the species. Each of the appetites, or animal 
desires, as we prefer to call them, has its own specific object 
to accomplish, with reference to this general end. The de- 
sire of food looks to the preservation of individual life and 
yigor, by repairing the waste which the physical system is 
continually undergoing. The desire of muscular exertion 
and repose has the same general design. The desire of sex 
has for its object the preservation of the species. 

Importance of these Principles. — Not only has each of 
these desires a speci6c end to accomplish, but it is an end 
which, so far as we can see, would not otherwise be accom- 
plished. Season might suggest the expediency of taking 
food to sustain the system, or of resting at intervals from 
exertion, in order to recruit our exhausted energies ; but 
were it not for the desires that nature has implanted in us 
demanding positive gratification, and reminding us when we 
transgress those laws which govern our physical being, how 
often, in the pressure of business, should we neglect the due 
care of the body, and deprive ourselves of needed food, or 
needed rest, or needed muscular exertion. Were it not for 
the demands of appetite, how imperfectly should we judge 
either as to the proper proportion, or the proper quantity 
and quality of that refreshment which the body needs, and 
which food and rest and muscular exercise supply. And 
the same may be said of the other animal desires. They 
are necessary to the economy of life, by supplying a motive 
whicli would not otherwise exist, and thus securing a result 
not otherwise obtained. The principles to which we refer, 
are not, therefore, to be regarded as of little importance 
because relating to tlic wants of the body, and common to 
man with the animal races, generally; on the contrary, 



THE PHYSICAL COJ^STITUTIOJiT. 479 

they are of the highest importance and value ; a due re- 
gard to them is essential to the highest well-being, and the 
neglect or abuse of them brings its own sure and speedy 
punishment. To be ashamed of our animal nature, is to 
be ashamed of ourselves, and of the constitution that God 
gave us ; to think lightly of it, is to despise the divine wis- 
dom and benevolence. It is no part of an intelligent and 
rational nature to contemn the casket that contains all its 
treasure. Even were that casket worthless in itself, it 
would be valuable for the office it performs ; much more 
when it is itself a piece of rare workmanship, curiously 
and wonderfully wrought. 

Not selfish. — The appetites are not to be regarded as 
essentially selfish, in their nature. They relate, indeed, to 
our own personal wants ; so do all our desires, and, in 
some measure, all our sensibilities. But when exercised 
within due bounds, they are not inconsistent with the 
rights and happiness of others, but the rather promotive of 
these results ; and, therefore, not in the proper sense of 
the term are they selfish propensities. Their ultimate aim 
is not the securing of a certain amount of enjoyment to 
the individual by their gratification, but the securing of a 
certain end, not otherwise reached, by means of that en- 
joyment. They are to be set down as original and im- 
planted principles of our nature, rather than as selfish and 
acquired propensities. 

Dangerous Tendency. — I would, by no means, however, 
overlook the fact that the animal desires are of dangerous 
tendency when permitted to gain any considerable control 
over the mind, and that they require to be kept within 
careful bounds. They are liable to abuse. When suffered 
to become predominant over other and higher principles of 
action, when, from subjection and restraint, they rise to 
the mastery, and govern the man, then sinks the man to 
the level of the brute, and there is presented that saddest 
spectacle of all that the sun beholds in his course about 



480 THE PHYSICAL CONSTITUTION. 

the earth, a mind endowed with capacity of reason and 
intelligence, but enslaved to its own base passions. There 
is no slavery so degrading as tliat, none so hopeless. The 
most earnest efforts, the best and most sincere purposes 
and resolutions are too often made in vain, and the mind, 
struggling, to little purpose, with its own propensities, and 
its own vitiated nature, is swept on by the fearful current 
of its ungoverned, and now ungovernable, appetites, as the 
ship over which neither sail nor helm have any further 
power, is swept along in swift and ever lessening circles by 
the fatal maelstrom. 

Curious Law of our Nature.— It seems to be the law of 
our nature, that while our active principles gain strength 
by exercise, the degree of enjoyment or of suffering which 
they are capable of affording, diminishes by repetition. 
This has been clearly stated by Mr. Stewart. It follows 
from this, that while by long and undue indulgence of any 
of the animal desires, the gratification originally derived 
from such indulgence is no longer capable of being enjoyed, 
the desire itself may be greatly increased, and constantly 
increasing, in its demands. It is hardly possible to con- 
ceive a condition more wretched and miserable, than that 
of a mind compelled thus to drain the bitter dregs of its 
cup of pleasure, long since quaffed, and to repeat, in end- 
less round, the follies that no longer have power to satisfy, 
even for the brief moment, the poor victim of their en- 
chantment. The drunkard, the glutton, the debaucliee, 
afford illustrations of this principle. 

Acquired Appetites. — Beside the natural appetites of 
which I have hitherto spoken, and which are fou7ided in 
the constitution of the physical system, there are certain 
appetites which must be regarded as artificial and acquired, 
such as the desire, so widely and almost universally preva- 
lent, in countries both savage and civilized, for narcotic 
and stimulating drugs of various kinds, and for intoxicat- 
ing drinks. 



CHAPTEH HI. 

DESIRES ARISING FROM THE CONSTITUTION OF 
THE MIND. 

§ I.-DESIRE OF HAPPINESS. 

Propriety of the Designation Self-love. — Among that 
class of desires that have their foundation in the mental 
rather than in the physical constitution, one of the most 
important is the desire of happiness, ov, as it is frequently 
called, self-love. The propriety of this designation has 
been called in question. '^The expression," says Mr. 
Stewart, "is exceptionable, for it suggests an analogy 
(where there is none, in fact) between that regard which 
every rational being must necessarily have to his own hap- 
piness, and those benevolent affections which attach us to 
our fellow-creatures. There is surely nothing in the former 
of these principles analogous to the affection of love ; and, 
therefore, to call it by the appellation of self-love, is to sug- 
gest a theory with respect to its nature, and a theory which 
has no foundation in truth." 

This Position questionable. — I apprehend that in this 
remark, Mr. Stewart may have gone too far. The regard 
which we have for our own happiness certainly differs from 
that which we entertain for the happiness of others, as the 
objects differ on which, in either case, the regard is fixed. 
That the emotion is not essentially of the same nature, how- 
ever, psychologically considered, is not so clear. Love or 
affection, as it has been defined in the preceding chapters, is 
the enjoyment of an object, mingled with a wish or desire of 
good to the same. Love of friends is the pleasure felt in, 
and the benevolent regard for, them. Love of self, in like 
21 . 



48-^ D K S I R E S ARISING 1- R O M 

manner, is the enjoyment of, and tlie desire of, good to self. 
Whoever, then, enjoj's himself, and Avishes his own good, 
exercises self-love ; and the essential ingredient of this affec- 
tion is the desire for his own happiness. Not only, then, is 
there an analogy between the two principles, the desire of 
our own happiness, and the regard which we feel for others, 
but something more than an analogy ; they are essentially 
of the same nature so far as regards the mental activity ex- 
ercised in either case, and the term love as properly desig- 
nates the one, as the other, of these states of mind. 1 may 
love myself, as truly as I love my friend, nor is it the part of 
a rational nature to be destitute of the principle of self-love. 

Not to be confounded with Selfishness. — There is more 
force in the objection, also urged by Mr. Stewart, against 
the phrase self-love, used to denote the desire of happiness, 
that it is, from its etymology, liable to be confounded, and 
in fact, often is confounded, with the word selfishnessy 
which denotes a very different state of mind. The word 
selfishness is always used in an unfavorable sense, to denote 
some disregard of the happiness and rights of others ; but 
no such idea properly attaches to self-love, or the desire of 
happiness, which, as Mr. Stewart justly remarks, is insep- 
arable from our nature as rational and sensitive beings. 

Views of Theologians. — Misled, perhaps, by the resem- 
blance of the vrords, many theological writers, both ancient 
and modern, iiave not only represented self-love as essen- 
tially sinful, but even as the root and origin of evil, the 
principle of original sin. 

So Barrow expressly affirms, citing Zuingle as authority. 
English moralists have sometimes taken the same view, and 
the earlier American divines very generally held it. 

Self-love not criminal.— It can hardly be that a jjrinci- 
])le, which seems to belong to our nature as intelligent and 
rational beings, should be essentially criminal in its nature. 
The mistake, doubtless, arises from overlooking the distinc- 
tion, already indicated, between self-love and selfishness. 



THE CONSTITUTION OF THE MIND. 483 

The love of self, carried to the extreme of disregarding the 
happiness of others, and trespassing upon the rights of others, 
in the way to self -gratification, is indeed a violation of the 
principles of right, and is equally condemned by natun , 
speaking in the common sense and reason of man, and by 
divine revelation.. But neither reason, nor the divine law, 
forbid that regard to our own happiness which self-love, in 
its true and proper sense, imphes, and Avhich exists, it may 
safely be affirmed, in every human bosom in which the light 
of intelligence and reason has not gone out in utter dark- 
ness. The sacred Scriptures nowhere forbid this principle. 
They enjoin upon us, indeed, the love of our neighbor ; but 
the very command to love him as myself, so far from forbid- 
ding self-love, implies its existence as a matter of course, 
and presents that as a standard by which to measure the 
love I ought to bear to others. 

Opinion of Aristotle. — Much more correct than the 
opinions to which I have referred, is the view taken by 
Aristotle in his Ethics, who speaks of the good man as ne- 
cessarily a lover of himself, and, in the true sense, preemi- 
nently so. " Should a man assume a preeminence in exer- 
cising justice, temperance, and other virtues, though such 
a man has really more true self-love than the multitude, yet 
nobody would impute his affection to him as a crime. Yet 
he takes to himself the fairest and greatest of all goods, and 
those the most acceptable to the ruling principle in his na- 
ture, which is, properly, himself, in the same manner as the 
sovereignty in every community is that which most properly 
constitutes the state. He is said, also, to have, or not to 
have, the command of himself, just as this principle bears 
sway, or as it is subject to control; and those acts are con- 
sidered as most voluntary w^hich proceed from this legisla- 
tive or sovereign power. Whoever cherishes and gratifies 
this ruling part of his nature, is strictly and peculiarly a 
lover of himself, but in quite a different sense from that in 
which self-love is regarded as a matter of reproach." (Ethic. 



484 DESIRES ARISING FROM 

Nic, lib. ix., cap. viii.) This view appears to me emi- 
nently just. 

That man is not, in . the true and proper sense, a self- 
lover who seeks his present at the expense of his future 
and permanent well-being, or who tramples upon the riglits 
and happiness of others, intent only upon his gratification. 
The glutton, the drunkard, the debauchee, are not the 
truest lovers of self. They stand fairly chargeable, not 
with too much, but too little regard for their own happi- 
ness and well-being. 

Not the only original Principle. — But while the desire 
of happiness is a principle which has its foundation in the 
constitution of the mind, and which is characteristic of rea- 
son and intelligence, it is by no means to be regarded as the 
only original principle of our nature. Certain moralists have 
sought to resolve all other active principles into self-love, 
making this the source and spring of all human conduct, so 
that, directly or indirectly, whatever we do finds its origin 
and motive in the love of self. According to this view, I 
love my friends, my kindred, my country, only because of 
the intimate connection between their well-being and my 
own ; T pity and relieve the unfortunate only to relieve my- 
self of the unpleasant feelings their condition awakens ; I 
sacrifice treasure, comfort, health, life itself, only for the 
sake of some greater good that is to be thus and only thus 
procured ; even the sense of right, and the obligations of a 
religious nature, which bind and control me, find their chief 
strength, as principles of action, in that regard for my own 
happiness which underlies all other considerations. 

Such a View indefensible. — This is a view not more de- 
rogatory to human nature than inconsistent with all true 
l)sychology. That the principle under consideration is one 
of the most powerful springs of human conduct, that it en- 
ters more largely than we may ourselves, at the lime, be 
aware, into those motives and actions that wear the appear- 
ance of entire disinterestedness, I am disposed to admit, 



THE COKSTITUTION OF THE MIKD. 485 

nor would I deny that our sense of right, and of rehgious 
obhgation, finds a strong support in that intimate and in- 
separable connection which exists between duty and happi- 
ness. The Scriptures constantly appeal to our love of hap- 
piness as a motiye to right action. Their rewards and 
promises on the- one hand, and their warnings and threat- 
enings on the other, all rest on this assumed law of human 
nature, that man everywhere and always desires his own 
well-being. But that this is the only and ultimate ground 
of human action, that all the benevolent affections, all 
honor and virtue, all sense of duty and right, all religious 
emotion and religious principle resolves itself into this, 
neither reason, nor revelation, nor the closest observation 
of the human mind, do eiclier teach or imply. 

This Desire, in what Sense rational. — Stewart's View. — 
We have spoken, thus far, of the desire of happiness as a 
rational principle. Is it, in such a sense, peculiar to a rational 
and intelligent nature ? Does it so imply and involve the 
exercise of reason, that it is not to be found except in con- 
nection with, and as the result of, that principle ? If so, it 
can hardly be called an original and implanted, or, at least, 
an instinctive principle. And such is the view taken by Mr. 
Stewart, in his Philosophy of the Active and Moral Powers. 
The desire of happiness impHes, in his estimation, a delib- 
erate and intelligent survey of the various sources of enjoy- 
ment, a looking before and after, to ascertain what will, and 
what will not, contribute to ultimate and permanent well- 
being ; and this it is the part of reason to perform. 

Not exclusively so. — That the desire of happiness, as ex- 
ercised by a rational nature, involves something of this pro- 
cess, some general idea of what constitutes happiness, or 
what is good on the whole and not merely for the present, 
some perception of consequences, some comprehensive view 
and comparison of the various principles of action and 
courses of conduct, as means to this general end, may, in- 
deed, be admitted. And, so far as the exercise of self-love 



486 DESIRES ARISING FROM 

is of the nature now indicated, it is certainly ii rational 
rather than an instinctive act. But I see no reason why 
one and the same emotion, or mental activity of any sort, 
may not be, at one time, the result of reflection, at another, 
of impulse ; now deliberate and rational, and now, instinc- 
tive in its character. AVe know this to be the case, for ex- 
ample, with the affections, both benevolent and malevolent. 
A principle of action may be none the less mstinctive, and 
originally implanted in man's nature, from the fact that, 
when he arrives at years of discretion, his reason confirms 
and strengthens what nature had already taught, or even 
adopts it as one of its own cardinal principles. It is not 
necessary, in order to all desire of good, that I should know, 
completely and comprehensively., in what good consists, and 
I may still desire my own happiness, according to the meas- 
ure of my knowledge and capacity, when I simply know that 
I am happy at the present moment. 

Desire of continued Existence. — Closely analogous to the 
principle now under consideration, if not, indeed, properly 
a form or modification of it, is the desire of coyitinued exist- 
ence. No desire that finds a placo in tlie human bosom, 
perhaps, is stronger or more universal than this. Life is 
valued above all other possessions ; riches, honors, place, 
power, ease, are counted as of little worth in comparison. 
There are, indeed, occasions when life is willingly sacrificed, 
rather than to incur dishonor and reproach, or for the de- 
fence of the innocent and helpless who depend on us for 
protection, or for some great and good cause that demands 
of the good and true man such service as may cost life. 
Even in such cases, the importance of the interests which 
demand and receive such a sacrifice, show the value we at- 
tach to that which is laid upon the altar. 

Increases with Age. — The desire of continued existence 
seems to increase, jis age advances, and life wears away. 
We always value that the more of which we have but little. 
It is a striking proof of the divine benevolence, that, in a 



THE COKSTITUTIOIS' OF THE MIND. 487 

world so full of care, and toil, and sorrow, as the present is, 
and must be, to the multitude .of its inhabitants, there are 
few so miserable as not to regard continued existence as a 
boon to be purchased at any price. 



§ II.-DESIRE OF KNOWLEDGE. 

An original Principle. — Among the various principles 
that enter into the composition of our nature, and are the 
motive powers of the human mind, awakening and calling 
forth its energies, and impelling it to action, the desire of 
knowledge holds an important place. From its early mani- 
festation, before reason and reflection have as yet, to any 
extent, come into play, and from its general, if not univer- 
sal existence, we infer that it is one of those principles 
originally implanted in our nature by the great Author of 
our being. 

Not Curiosity. — The desire of knowledge, though often 
spoken of as synonymous v/ith curiosity, is not altogether 
identical with it. Curiosity has reference rather to the 
novelty and strangeness of that which comes before the 
mind. It is the feeling awakened by these qualities, rather 
than the general desire to know what is yet unknown. It 
is of more limited application, and while it implies a desire 
to understand the object in view of which it is awakened, 
implies also some degree of wonder, at the unusual and un- 
expected character of the object as thus presented. While, 
then, curiosity is certainly a most powerful auxiliary to the 
desire of learning, and stimulates the mind to exertions it 
might not otherwise put forth, it is hardly to be viewed as 
identical with the principle under consideration. 

Manifested in early Life. — The desire of knowledge is 
never, perhaps, more strongly developed than in early life, 
and never partakes more fully of the character of curiosity 
than then. To the child, all things are new and strange. 
He looks about him upon a world as unknown to him as he 



488 DESIRES ARISING FROM 

is to it, and every different object that meets his eye is a 
new study, and a new mystery to him. The desire to ac- 
quaint himself with the new and unknown world around 
him, keeps him constantly employed, constantly learning. 

In later Years. — As he grows up, and the sphere of his 
intellectual vision enlarges, every step of his progress only 
opens new and wider fields to be explored, beyond the limits 
of his previous investigations. If there is less of childish 
curiosity, there is more of earnest, manly, irrepressible de- 
sire and determination to know. His studies assume this 
or that direction, according to native taste and tempera- 
ment, early associations, or the force of circumstances ; ho 
becomes a student of science, or a student of letters, or of 
art, or of the practical professions and pursuits of life ; but 
turn in what direction and to what pursuits he will, the de- 
sire to know still lives within him, as a sacred lamp ever 
burning before the shrine of truth. 

Explains the Love of Narrative. — Every one has remarked 
the eagerness with which children listen to stories, histories, 
and fables. This is owing not more to the love of the ideal, 
which is usually very strongly developed in early life, than 
to the desire of knowing what presents itself to the mind as 
something new and unknown, yet with the semblance of 
reality. Nor does this love of narrative forsake us as wc 
grow older. We have still our romances, our histories, our 
poems, epic and tragic, to divert us amid the graver cares 
of life ; and the old man is, perhaps, as impatient as the 
child, to go on with the story, and comprehend the plot, 
when once his interest and curiosity are awakened. 

A benevolent Provision.— We cannot but regard it as a 
l)enevolent provision of tlie Creator, so to constitute the 
human mind, that not only knowledge itself, but the very 
process of its acquisition, should be a ])leasure. And when 
we consider how great is the importance to man of this desire 
of knowledge, and how great is the progress of even the hum- 
blest mind, from the dawn of its intelligence, on to the period 



THE COlN^STITUTIOI^ OF THE MIKD. 489 

of its full maturity and strength ; how, under the influence 
of this desire, the mind of a JSTewton, a Kepler, a Bacon, a 
Descartes, a Leibnitz, moves on, from the slow and feeble 
acquisitions of the nursery, to the great and sublime dis- 
coveries that are to shed a light and glory, not only on the 
name of the discoverer, but on the path of all who come 
after him, we can hardly attach too high an importance to 
this part of our mental constitution. 

A rational, though an instinctive Principle. — The desire 
of knowledge, like many of the active principles which 
have already fallen under our notice, is capable of rational 
exercise and control, while, at the same time, an implanted 
and instinctive principle. It operates, at first, rather as a 
blind impulse, impelling the mind to a given end ; when 
reason assumes her sway of the mind and its restless ener- 
gies, v/hat was before a mere impulse and instinct of na- 
ture, now becomes a deliberate and rational purpose. 

Moral Character. — As to moral character, it may, or may 
not, pertain to the exercise of the principle under consid- 
eration. The desire of knowledge is not of necessity a vir- 
tuous affection of the mind. Characteristic as it is of a 
noble and superior nature, more elevated and excellent, as 
it certainly is, than the merely animal desires and impulses, 
it is not inseparably connected with moral excellence. 

As rationally exercised it is laudable and virtuous, pro- 
vided we seek knowledge with proper motives, and for right 
ends ; otherwise, the reverse. Inasmuch, however, as we 
are under obligation to act in this, as in all other matters, 
from pure motives, and for right ends, the mere absence of 
such a motive, the desire and pursuit of knowledge in an- 
other manner, and from other motives, becomes blame- 
worthy. 



490 1) E S I R E S A R I S I N G F R O M 

§ III.-DESIRE OF POWER. 

A native Principle.— The desire of power must be re- 
garded as an original principle of our nature. Like the 
desire of happiness, and of knowledge, it is both early in its 
development, and powerful in its influence over the mind. 
It is also universally manifest. 

In what Manner awakened. — Of the idea of power or 
cause, and of the manner in which the mind comes, in the 
first instance, to form that ided,, I have already S[)oken, un- 
der the head of original conception. We see changes tak- 
ing place in the external world. We observe these changes 
immediately and invariably preceded by certain antecedents. 
The idea of cause is thus suggested to the mind, and cause 
implies power of one thing over another to produce given 
effects. We find, also, our own volitions attended with cor- 
responding effects wpou. objects external, and thus learn, 
still further, that we ourselves possess power over other ob- 
jects. The idea thus awakened in the mind, there springs 
up, also, in connection with the idea, an activity of the 
sensibilities. The power which we find ourselves to have 
over objects about us affords us pleasure ; what we enjoy 
we love, and what we love we desire ; and so there is awak- 
ened in the mind a strong and growing desire for the pos- 
session of power. 

Pleasure of exerting Power.— The pleasure which we 
derive from producing, in any instance, a manifest effect, 
and from the consciousness that we have in ourselves the 
power to produce like effects whenever we will, is one of 
the highest sources of enjoyment of which nature has made 
us capable. It is, to a great extent, the s})ring and secret 
of the constant activity of which the world is full. It shows 
itself in the sports of childhood, and in the graver pursuits 
of matnrer years. The infant, when it finds that it can move 
and control its own little limbs, the boy learning the art of 
such athletic sports as lie perceives his fellows practise, tlio 



THE COKSTITUTIO]!^ OF THE MIND. 491 

man when he finds that he can control the action of his 
fellow-man, and bend the will of others to his own, are 
each, and perhaps equally, dehghted at the acquisition of 
this new power ; and the pleasure is generally in propor- 
tion to the novelty of the acquisition, and the apparent 
greatness of tlie effect produced. 

Strength and Influence of this Principle. — TJie love of 
power is one of the strongest of the ruling principles of 
the human mind. It has its seat in the deepest founda- 
tions of our nature. I can do something ; I can do what 
others do ; I can do more than they ; such is the natural 
order and progression of our endeavors, and such also the 
measure and increase of our delight. What, but the love 
of power, leads to those competitions of strength with 
strength, which mark the athletic games and contests of all 
nations, civilized and savage ? What, but the love of power, 
impels the hunter over the pathless mountains, and deserts, 
m quest of those savage denizens and lords of nature, whose 
strength is so far superior to his own ? What, but the love 
of power, leads the warrior forth, at the head of conquering 
armies, to devastate and subdue new realms ? 

Seen also in other Pursuits. — And in the peaceful pursuits 
of life, how largely does the same impulse mingle with the 
other, and perhaps more apparent, motives of human ac- 
tion ? The man of science, as he watches the nightly 
courses of the stars, or resolves the stubborn compounds of 
nature into their simple and subtle elements, as he discov- 
ers new laws, and unlocks the secrets that have long baffled 
human inquiry, derives no small part of his gratification 
from the consciousness of that power which he thus exer- 
cises over the realm of matter subjected to his will. And 
when, in like manner, the orator, on whose words depend 
the lives of men, and the fate of nations, stands forth to 
accuse or defend, to arouse the slumbering passions, and 
inflame the patriotism, the courage, the resentment of his 
audience, or to soothe their anger, allay their prejudice. 



493 DESIRES ARISING FROM 

awaken their pity or their fears, how does the conscious- 
ness of his power over the swaying, agitated multitude he- 
fore him, mingle with the emotions that swell his bosom, 
and augment the fierce delight of victory? 

Auxiliary to desire of Knowledge. — The desire of power 
is accessory to, and in some cases, perhiips, the foundation of 
certain other principles of action. It is especially auxiliary 
to the desire of knowledge, inasmuch as every new acquisi- 
tion of truth is an accession of power to the mind, and is, 
therefore, on that account, as well as for its own sake, de- 
sirable. As a general thing, the more we know, the more 
and the better we can do. Every mental acquisition becomes, 
in some sense, an instrument to aid us in further and larger 
acquisitions. We arc enabled to call to our aid the very 
forces and elements of nature which our discoveries have, in 
a manner, subjected to our sway, and to conform our own 
conduct to those established laws which science reveals. 
The mind is thus stimulated, in all its investigations, and 
toilsome search for truth, by the assurance that every in- 
crease of knowledge is, in some sense, an increase, also, of 
power. Hence the aphorism so current, and generally at- 
tributed to Bacon, which affirms that knowledge is power. 

Auxiliary also to love of Liberty. — The love of liberty, 
according to some writers, proceeds also, in part, at least, 
from the desire of power, the desire of being able to do 
whatever we like. Whatever deprives us of liberty trenches 
upon our power. In like manner, writers upon morals have 
noticed the fact that the pleasure of virtue is in a measure 
due to the same source. When evil habits predominate 
and acquire the mastery, we lose the power of self-control, 
the mind is subjected to the baser passions, and this loss of 
power is attended with the painful consciousness of degra- 
dation. On the other hand, to the mind that is bent on 
maintaining its integrity, though it be by stern and deter- 
mined conflict with the evil influences that surround it, and 
its own natural propensities to a course of sinful indulgence, 



THE COKSTITUTIOK OF THE MIKD. 493 

every fresh struggle with those adverse influences becomes 
a pledge of final success, and the hour of victory, when it 
comes at last, as come it will, is an hour of triumph and of joy. 

§ IV.-CERTAIN MODIFICATIONS OF THE DESIRE OF 
POWER; -AS, THE DESIRE OF SUPERIORITY, AND 
OF POSSESSION. 

General Statement. — There are certain desires to which 
the human mind is subject, and which seem to have a 
foundation in nature, which, though frequently regarded 
as distinct principles of action, are more properly, perhaps, 
to be viewed as but modifications of the principle last con- 
sidered. I refer to the desire of superiority , and tlie desire 
of possession ; or, as they are more succinctly termed, am- 
bition and avarice. 

The Desire to excel, universal. — The desire to excel is al- 
most universal among men. It shows itself in every con- 
dition of society, and under all varieties of character and 
pursuit. It animates the sports of childhood, and gives a 
zest to the sober duties and realities of life. It penetrates 
the camp, the court, the halls of legislation, and of justice ; 
it enters alike into the peaceful rivalries of the school, the 
college, the learned professions, and into those more fear- 
ful contests for superiority which engage nations in hostile 
encounter on the field of strife and carnage. What have 
we, under all these manifestations, but the desire of superi- 
ority, and what is that but the desire of power in one of its 
most common forms ? 

Not peculiar to Man. — This is a principle not peculiar to 
human nature, but common to man with the brute. The 
lower animals have also their rivalries, their jealousies, their 
contests for superiority in swiftness, and in strength, and 
he is the acknowledged leader who proves himself superior 
in these respects to his fellows. 

Not the same with Envy. — The desire to excel, or the 
principle of emulation, is not to be confounded with envy. 



494 D E s I R t: s arising from 

with which it is too freciuently, but not necessarily, asso- 
ciated. Envy is pained at the success of a rival ; a just 
and honorable emulation, without seeking to detract from 
the well-merited honors of another, strives only to equal 
and surpass them. This distinction is an important one, 
and has been very clearly pointed out by Mr. Stewart, and 
also by Bp. Butler, and, still earlier, by Aristotle. "Emu- 
lation," says Butler, " is merely the desire of superiority 
over others, with whom we compare ourselves. To desire 
the attainment of this superiority by the particular means 
of others being brought down below our own level, is the 
distinct notion of envy." To the same effect, Aristotle, as 
quoted by Stewart: '* Emulation is a good thing, and be- 
longs to good men ; envy is bad, and belongs to bad men. 
What a man is emulous of he strives to attain, that he 
may really possess the desired object; the envious are satis- 
fied if nobody has it.." 

Not malevolent of Necessity. — Dr. Eeid has classed emu- 
lation with the malevolent aflfections, as involving a senti- 
ment of ill-will toward the rival ; but, as Mr. Stewart very 
justly remarks, this sentiment is not a necessary concomi- 
tant of the desire of superiority, though often found in 
connection with it ; nor ought emulation to be classed with 
the affections, but with the desires, for it is the desire which 
is the active principle, and the affection is only a concomi- 
tant circumstance. 

View maintained by Mr. Upham. — Mr. Upham denies 
emulation a place among the original and implanted prin- 
ciples of our nature, on this ground. All our active princi- 
ples, he maintains, from instinct upward, are subordinate to 
the authority and decisions of conscience, as a faculty para- 
mount to every other. But the desire of superiority he sup- 
poses to be utterly inconsistent with the law of subordination. 
Whenever man perceives a superior, he perceives one with 
whom, by this law of his nature, if such it be, he is brought 
into direct conflict and collision, and as he is surrounded 



THE CONSTITUTIOK OF THE MIND. 495 

by those who, in some respect, are his superiors, he is really 
placed in a state of perpetual warfare and misery ; nor can 
he regard even the Supreme Being with other feelings than 
those of unhallowed rivalry. A principle that would lead 
to such results, he concludes, cannot be founded in the 
constitution of our nature. He accordingly resolves the 
desire of superiority into the principle of imitativeness. 

The Correctness of this View called in Question. — It is 
difficult to perceive the force of this reasoning. The desire 
of superiority, it is sufficient to say, whatever be its origin, 
leads to no such results. As actually manifest in human 
character and conduct, it does not show itself to be incon- 
sistent with due subordination to authority, nor does it in- 
volve man in necessary and perpetual conflict with his fel- 
lows, nor does it present the Supreme Being as an object of 
unhallowed rivalry. We have only to do with facts, with 
the phenomena actually presented by human nature ; and 
we do not find the facts to correspond with the view now 
given. Nor can we perceive any reason, in the nature of the 
case, why the desire in question should lead, or be supposed 
to lead, to such results. The desire of superiority does not 
necessarily imply the desire to be superior to every body, 
and every thing, in the universe. It may have its natural 
and proper limits ; and such we find to be the fact. 

Actual Limitations of this Principle. — We desire to excel 
not, usually, those who are far above us in rank and for- 
tune, but our fellows and companions ; our rivals are mostly 
those who move in the same sphere with ourselves. The 
artist vies with his brother artist, the student with his fel- 
low student, and even where envy and ill-will mingle, as 
they too often do, with the desire, still, the object of that 
envy is not every one, indiscriminately, who may happen to 
be superior to ourselves, but only our particular rival in the 
race before us. The child at school does not envy Sir Isaac 
Newton, or the illustrious Humboldt, but the urchin that is 
next above himself in the class. The desire of superiority. 



496 D K S 1 R E S ARISING FROM 

like every other desire of the human mind, looks only at 
what is possible to be accomplished, at what is probable, 
even ; it aims not at the clouds, but at things within our 
reach, things to be had for the asking and the striving. 
But whatever view we take of tiie matter, the desire of su- 
periority certainly exists as an active principle in the human 
mind ; nor do we see any reason why it should not be ad- 
mitted as an original principle founded in the constitution 
of our nature, or, at least, as one of the forms and modifi- 
cations of such a principle, viz., tlie love of power. 

This Principle requires Restraint. — I would by no means 
deny, however, that the desire now under consideration is 
one which is liable to abuse, and which requires the care- 
ful and constant restraints of reason and of religious prin- 
ciple. The danger is, that envy and ill-will, toward those 
whom we regard as rivals and competitors with us, for 
those honors and rewards which lie in our path, shall be 
permitted to mingle with the desire to excel. Indeed, so 
frequently are the two conjoined, that to the reflecting and 
sensitive mind, superiority itself almost ceases to be desira- 
ble, since it is but too likely to be purchased at the price of 
the good-will, and kind feeling, of those less fortunate, or 
less gifted, tlian ourselves. 

Another Form of the same Desire. — The desire of posses- 
sion may be regarded, also, as a modification of the desire 
of power. That influence over others which power implies, 
and which is, to some extent, commanded by superiority of 
personal strength or prowess, by genius, by skill, by the 
various arts and address of life, or by the accident of birth 
and hereditary station, is still more directly and generally 
attainable, by another, and perhaps a shorter route — the 
possession of wealth. This, as the world goes, is the key 
that unlocks, the sceptre that controls, all things. Personal 
prowess, genius, address, station, the throne itself, are, in no 
inconsiderable degree, dependent upon its strength, and at 
its command. He who has this can well afford to dispense 



THE COKSTITUTIOK OF THE MIND. 497 

with most other goods and gifts of fortune ; so far, at least, 
as concerns the possession of power. He may be neither 
great, nor learned, nor of noble birth ; neither elegant in 
person, nor accomplished in manners, distinguished neither 
for science, nor virtue ; he may command no armies, he may 
sit upon no throjie ; yet with all his deficiencies, and even 
his vices, if so he have wealth, he has power. Unnumbered 
hands are ready to task their skill at his bidding, unnum- 
bered arms, to move and toil and strive in his service, un- 
numbered feet hasten to and fro upon his errands. He 
commands the skill and labor of multitudes whom he has 
never seen, and who know him not. In distant quarters of 
the globe, the natives of other zones and climes hasten upon 
his errands ; swift ships traverse the seas for him ; the furs 
of the extreme North, the rich woods and spices of the tropics, 
the silks of India, the pearls and gems of the East— whatever 
is costly, and curious, and rare, whatever can contribute to 
the luxury and the pride of man — these are his, and for him. 
No wonder that he who desires power, should desire that 
which is one of the chief avenues and means to the attain- 
ment of power, and that what is valued, at first, rather as 
an instrument than as an end, should presently come to be 
regarded and valued for its own sake. 

A twofold Aspect —Covetousness, Avarice. — There are, if 
I mistake not, two forms which the desire of possession 
assumes. The one is the simple desire of acquiring, that 
there may be the more to spend ; the other of accnmulating, 
adding to the heaps already obtained — which may be done 
by keeping fast what is already gotten, as well as by getting 
more. The one is the desire of getting, which is not incon- 
sistent with the desire of spending, but, in fact, grows out 
of that in the first instance ; the other is the desire of in- 
creasing, and the corresponding dread of diminishing, what 
is gotten, which, when it prevails to any considerable de- 
gree, effectually prevents all enjoyment of the accumulated 
treasure, and becomes one of the most remarkable and most 



498 DESIRES ARISING FROM 

odious passions of our perverted iiature. The term covet- 
ousncss answers somewhat nearly to the one, avarice to the 
other, of these forms of desire. It must be added, also, that 
it seems to be the natural tendency of the primitive and. 
milder form of this principle, to pass into the other and more 
repulsive manifestation. He who begins with desiring wealth 
as a means of gratifying his various wants, too frequently 
ends with desiring it for its own sake, and becomes that 
poorest and most miserable of all men, the miser. 

The inordinate love of Money not owing wholly to Asso- 
ciation. — Whence arises that inordinate value which the 
miser attaches to money, which, in reality, is but the mere 
representative of enjoyment, the mere means to an end ? 
Why is he so loth to part with the smallest portion of the 
representative medium, in order to secure the reahty, the 
end for which alone the means is valuable ? Is it that, by 
the laws of association, the varied enjoyments which gold 
has so often procured, and which have a fixed value in our 
minds, are transferred with all their value to the gold which 
procured them ? Doubtless this is, in some measure, the 
case, and it ma}^, therefore, in part, account for the phe- 
nomenon in question. The gold piece which I take from my 
drawer for the purchase of some needful commodity, has, it 
may be, an increased value in my estimation, from the recol- 
lection of the advantages previously derived from the pos- 
session of just such a sum. But why should such associations 
operate more powerfully upon the miser, than upon any other 
person ? Why are we not r??Zmiscrs, if such associations are 
the true cause and explanation of avarice ?. Nay, why is not 
the spendthrift the most avaricious of all men, since he has 
more frequently exchanged the representative medium for 
the enjoyment which it would procure, and has, therefore, 
greater store of such associations connected with his gold? 

The true Explanation. — Dr. Brown, who has admirably 
treated this part of our mental constitution, has suggested, 
I think, the true explanation of this phenomenon. 



THE COI^STITUTION OF THE MIKD. 499 

So long as the gold itself is in the miser's grasp, it is, and 
is felt to be, a permanent possession; when it is expended, 
it is usually for something of a transient nature, which per- 
ishes with ther using. It seems to him afterward as so much 
utter loss, and is regretted as such. Every such regretted 
expenditure increases the reluctance to part with another 
portion of the treasure. There is, moreover, another cir- 
cumstance which heightens this feeling of reluctance. The 
enjoyment purchased is one and simple. The gold with 
which it was purchased is the representative, not of that 
particular form of enjoyment alone, but of a thousand others 
as well, any one of which might have been procured with the 
same money. All these possible advantages are now no 
longer possible. Very great seems the loss. Add to this the 
circumstance that the miser, in most cases, probably, has 
accumulated, or set his heart upon accumulating, a certain 
round sum, say so many thousands or hundreds of thousands. 
The spending a single dollar breaks that sum, and, there- 
with, the charm is broken, and he who was a millionaire 
before that unlucky expenditure, is a millionaire no longer. 
It is mainly in these feelings of regret, which attend the 
necessary expenses of the man who has once learned to set 
a high value, upon wealth, that avarice finds, if not its 
source, at least its chief strength and aliment. 

Odiousness of this Vice. — There is, perhaps, no passion 
or vice to which poor human nature is subject, that is, in 
some respects, more odious and repulsive than this. There 
is about it no redeeming feature. It is pure and unmingied 
selfishness, without even the poor apology that most other 
vices can offer, of contributing to the present enjoyment 
and sensual gratification of the criminal. The miser is de- 
nied even this. He covets, not that he may enjoy, but that 
he may refrain from enjoying. 

Strongest in old Age. — ^*In the contemplation of many 
of the passions that rage in the heart with greatest fierce- 
ness," says Dr. Brown, ^* there is some comfort in the 



500 DESIRES ARISING FROM 

thought that, violent as tliey may be for a time, they are 
not to rage through the whole course of life, at least-if life 
be prolonged to old age ; that the agitation which at every 
period will have some intermissions, will grow gradually less 
as the body grows more weak, and that the mind will at last 
derive from this very feebleness a repose which it could not 
enjoy when the vigor of the bodily frame seemed to give to 
the passion a corresponding vigor. It is not in avarice, 
however, that this soothing influence of age is to be found. 
It grows with our growth and with our strength, but it 
strengthens also with our very weakness. There are no 
intermissions in the anxieties which it keeps awake ; and 
every year, instead of lessening its hold, seems to fix it more 
deeply within the soul itself, as the bodily covering around 
it slowly moulders away. * * * The heart which is 
weary of every thing else is not weary of coveting more 
gold ; the memory which has forgotten every thing else, 
continues still, as Cato says in Cicero's dialogue, to remem- 
ber where its gold is stored ; the eye is not dim to gold that 
is dim to every thing beside ; the hand which it seems an ef- 
fort to stretch out and fix upon any thing, appears to gather 
new strength from the very touch of the gold which it grasps, 
and has still vigor enough to lift once more, and count once 
more, though a little more slowly, what it has been its chief 
and happiest occupation thus to lift and count for a period 
of years far longer than the ordinary life of man. When 
the relations or other expectant heirs gather around his 
couch, not to comfort, nor even to seem to comfort, but to 
await, in decent mimicry of solemn attendance, that mo- 
ment which they rejoice to view approaching; the dying 
eye can still send a jealous glance to the cofiTer near which 
it trembles to see, though it scarcely sees, so many human 
forms assembled ; aiul that feeling of jealous agony, which 
follows and outlasts the obscure vision of floating forms 
that are scarcely remembered, is at once the last misery and 
the last consciousness of life." 



THE CONSTITUTION OF THE MIND. 501 

§V.-DESIRE OF SOCIETY. 

A natural Principle. — -There can be little doubt that the 
desire of society is one of the original principles of our 
nature. It shows itself at a very early period of life, and 
under all the diverse conditions of existence. Its universal 
manifestation, and that under circumstances which pre- 
clude the idea of education or limitation in the matter, 
proves it an implanted principle, having its seat in the con- 
stitution of the mind. 

Manifested by Animals of every Species. — The child re- 
joices in the company of its fellows. The lower animals 
manifest the same regard for each other^s society, and are 
unhappy when separated from their kind. Much of the at- 
tachment of the dog to his master may, not improbably, be 
owing to the same source. The beast of labor is cheered 
and animated by his master's presence, and the patient ox, 
as he toils along the furrow, or the highway, moves more 
willingly when he hears the well-known step and voice of 
his owner trudging by his side. Every one knows how 
much the horse is inspirited by the chance companionship, 
upon the way, of a fellow-laborer of his own species. 
Horses that have been accustomed to each other's society 
on the road, or in the stall, frequently manifest the greatest 
uneasiness and dejection when separated ; and it has been 
observed by those acquainted with the habits of animals, 
that cattle do not thrive as well, even in good pasture, when 
solitary, as when feeding in herds. 

Social Organizations of Animals. — Accordingly we find 
most animals, when left to the instinct of nature, associa- 
ting in herds, and tribes, larger or smaller, according to 
the habits of the animal. They form their little communi- 
ties, have their leaders, and, to some extent, their laws, ac- 
knowledged and obeyed by all, their established customs 
and modes of procedure — in which associations, thus regu- 
lated, it is impossible not to recognize the essential feature 



502 DESIRES ARISING FROM 

and principle of what man, in his political associations of the 
same nature, calls the date. What else are the little com- 
munities of the bee, and the ant, and the beaver, but so 
many bus\^ cities, and states, of the insect and animal tribes? 

The social State not adopted because of its Advantages 
merely. — It may be said that man derives advantages from 
the social state, and adopts it for that reason. Unquestion- 
ably he does derive immense advantages from it ; but is that 
the reason he desires it ? Is the desire of society consequent 
upon the advantages, experienced or foreseen, which accrue 
from it, or are the advantages consequent upon the desire 
and the adoption of the state in question ? Is it matter of 
expediency and calculation, of policy and necessity, or of 
native instinct and implanted constitutional desire ? What 
is it with the lower animals ? Has not nature provided in 
their very constitution for their prospective wants, and, by 
implanting in them the desire for each other's society, laid 
the foundation for their congregating in tribes and commu- 
nities ? Is it not reasonable to suppose that the same may 
be true of man ? The analogy of nature, the early mani- 
festation of the principle prior to education and experience, 
the universality and uniformity of its operation, and the fact 
that it shows itself often in all its strength under circum- 
stances in which very little benefit would seem to result 
from the social condition, as with the savage races of the 
extreme North, and with many rude and uncultivated tribes 
of the forest and the desert— all these circumstances go to 
show that the desire of society is founded in the nature of 
man, and is not a mere matter of calculation and policy. 

Man's Nature deficient without this Principle. — And 
this is a sufficient answer to the theory of those who, with 
Hobbcs, regard the social condition of man as the result of 
his perception of what is for his own interest, the dictate of 
l)rudence and necessity. The very fact that it is for his in- 
terest would lead us to expect that some provision should 
be made for it in his nature ; and this is precisely wlial we 



THE COl^STITUTIOI^ OF THE MIKD. 503 

find to be the case. Were it otherwise, we should feel that, 
in one important respect, the nature of man was deficient, 
inferior even to that of the brute. But the truth is, the 
whole history of the race is one complete and compact con- 
tradiction of the theory of Hobbes, and shows, with the 
clearness of demonstration, that the 7iatiiral condition of 
man is not that of seclusion, and isolation from his fellows, 
but of society and companionship. 

Strength of this Principle. — So strongly is this principle 
rooted in the very depths of our nature, that when man is 
for a length of time shut out from the society of his fellow- 
men, he seeks the acquaintance and companionship of 
brutes, and even o.f insects, and those animals for whom, 
in his usual condition, he has a marked repugnance, as a 
relief from utter loneliness and absolute solitude. Mr. 
Stewart relates the instance of a French nobleman, shut up 
for several years a close prisoner in the Castle of Pignerol, 
during the reign of Lous XIV., who amused himself, in his 
solitude, by watching the movements of a spider, to which 
he at length became so much attached, that when the 
jailor, discovering his amusement, killed the spider, he was 
afflicted with the deepest grief. Silvio Pellico, in his im- 
prisonment, amused himself in like manner. Baron Trench 
sought to alleviate the wretchedness of his long imjDrison- 
ment, by cultivating the acquaintance or friendship of a 
mouse, which in turn manifested a strong attachment to 
him, played about his person, and took its food from his 
hand. The fact having been discovered by the officers, the 
mouse was removed to the guard-room, but managed to find 
its way back to the prison door, and, at the hour of visita- 
tion, when the door was opened, ran into the dungeon, and 
manifested the greatest delight at finding its master. Be- 
ing subsequently removed and placed in a cage, it pined, 
refused all sustenance, and in a few days died. " The loss 
of this little companion made me for some time quite mel- 
ancholy," adds the narrator. 



504 DESIRES ARISING FROM 

Case of Silvio Pellico. — IIow strongly is the desire for 
society manifested in these words of Silvio Pellico, when 
forbidden to converse with his fellow-prisoner. •'•I shall 
do no such thing. "I shall speak as long as I have breath, 
and invito my neighbor to talk to me. If he refuse, I 
will talk to my window-bars. I will talk to the hills be- 
fore me. I will talk to the birds as they fly about. I will 
talk." 

Facts of this nature clearly indicate that the love of so- 
ciety is originally implanted in the human mind. 

Illustrated from the History of Prison Discipline. — The 
same thing is further evident from the effects of entire se- 
clusion from all society, as shown in the history of prison 
discipline. For the facts which follow, as well as for some 
of the preceding, I am indebted to Mr. Upham. 

The legislature of New York some years since, by way of 
experiment, directed a number of the most hardened crim- 
inals in the State prison at Auburn, to be confined in solitary 
cells, without labor, and without intermission of their soli- 
tude. The result is thus stated by Messrs. Beaumont and 
Tocqueville, who were subsequently appointed commission- 
ers by the French government to examine and report on the 
American system of prison discipline. *'This trial, from 
Avhich so happy a result had been anticipated, was fatal to 
the greater part of the convicts ; in order to reform them, 
they had been subjected to complete isolation ; but this abso- 
lute solitude, if nothing interrupts it, is beyond the strength 
of man ; it destroys the criminal, without intermission, and 
without pity ; it does not reform, it kills. The unfortunates 
on whom this experiment was made, fell into a state of de- 
pression so manifest that their keei>ers were struck with it ; 
their lives seemed in dangcr-if they remained longer in this 
situation ; five of tliem had already succumbed during a 
single year; their moral state was no less alarming; one of 
(hem had become insane ; another, in a fit of des]iair, had 
embraced the opportunity, when the koe])er l)rought liim 



THE COKSTITUTION" OF THE MIKD. 505 

something', to precipitiite liimself from his cell, running 
the almost certain chance of a mortal fall. Upon those, 
and similar effects, the system was finally judged." The 
same results substantially have followed similar experi- 
ments in other prisons. It is stated by Lieber, that in the 
penitentiary of ^ew Jersey, ten persons are mentioned as 
having been killed by solitary confinement. Facts like 
these show how deeply-rooted in our nature is the desire of 
society, and how essential to our happiness is the compan- 
ionship of our fellow-beings. 



§ VI.-DESIRE OF ESTEEM. 

An important and original Principle. — Of the active 
principles of our nature, few exert a more important influ- 
ence over human conduct, few certainly deserve a more 
careful consideration, than the regard which we feel for the 
approbation of others. The early period at which this man- 
ifests itself, as well as the strength which it displays, indi- 
cate, with sufficient clearness, that it is an original princi- 
ple, founded in the constitution of the mind. 

Cannot be regarded as an acquired Habit. — When we see 
children of tender age manifesting a sensitive regard for 
the good opinion of their associates, shrinking with evident 
pain from the censure of those around them, and delighted 
with the approbation which they may receive ; when, in ma- 
turer years, we find them — children no longer — ready to 
sacrifice pleasure and advantage in every form, and to almost 
any amount, and even to lay down life itself to maintain an 
honorable place in the esteem of men, and to preserve a 
name and reputation unsullied — and these things we do see 
continually — we cannot believe that what shows itself so 
early, and so uniformly, and operates with such strength, is 
only some acquired principle, the result of association, or 
the mere calculation of advantage, and a prudential regard 
to self-interest. In many cases we know it cannot be so. 
22 



506 D E S 1 K E S ARISING FROM 

It is not the dictate of prudence, or the calculation of ad- 
vantage, tliat influences the little child ; nor is it the force 
of such considerations that induces the man of mature years 
to give up ease, fortune, and life itself, for the sake of honor 
and a name. Even where the approbation or censure of 
those who may pass an opinion, favorable, or unfavorable, 
upon our conduct, can be of no benefit or injury to us, that 
approbation is still desired, that censure is still feared. We 
prefer the good opinion of even a weak man, or a bad man, 
to his disesteera ; and even if the odium which, in that case, 
we may chance to incur in the discharge of duty, is felt to 
be unjust and undeserved, and our consciousness of right 
intention and right endeavor sustains us under all the pres- 
sure of opinion from without, it is impossible, nevertheless, 
not to be pained with even that unjust and undeserved re- 
proach. We feel that, in losing the confidence and esteem 
of others, we incur a heavy loss. 

Want and wretchedness may drive a man to desperate 
and reckless courses ; yet few, probably, can be found, so 
wretched and desperate, who, in all their misery, would not 
prefer the good opinion and the good offices of their fellow- 
man. 

Accounted for neither by the selfish nor the associative 
Principle. — It can hardly be, then, a selfish and prudential 
principle— this strong desire of esteem ; nor yet can it be the 
result of association, as some have inferred ; since it shows 
itself under circumstances where a selfish regard for one's 
own interests could not be supposed to operate, and with a 
power which no laws of association can explain. 

Hume's Theory.— Hardly better is it accounted for on 
the principle which Hume suggests, that the good opinion 
of others confirms our good opinion of ourselves, and hence 
is felt to be desirable. Doubtless there is need enough, in 
many cases, perhaps in most, of some such confirmation. 
Nor would I deny that this may be one element of the 
pleasure which we derive from the esteem of others. Dr. 



THE CONSTITUTION" OF THE MIND. 507 

Brown, in his analysis of the principle under consideration, 
has very justly included this among the components of the 
pleasure thus derived. But it by no means accounts for the 
origin, nor explains the nature, of this desire. It is rather 
an incidental circumstance than the producing cause. 

This Principle as it relates to the Future. — Perhaps in 
no one of its aspects is the desire of esteem more remark- 
able, than when it relates to the future — the desire to leave 
a good name behind us, when we are no longer concerned 
with the affairs of time. It would seem as if the good or 
ill opinion of men would be of no moment whatever to us, 
when once we have taken our final departure from the 
stage of life. We pass to a higher tribunal, and the ver- 
dict of approving or reproving millions, the applause of 
nations, the condemnation of a world in arms against us, 
will hardly break the silence or disturb the deep repose of 
the tomb. These approving and condemning voices will 
die away in the distance, or be heard but as the faint echo 
of the wave that lashes some far-off shore. 

Yet, though the honors that may then await our names 
will be of as little moment to us, personally, as the perish- 
ing garlands that the hand of affection may place upon our 
tombs, we still desire to leave a name unsullied at least, if 
not distinguished, even as we desire to live in the memory 
and affections of those who survive us. 

How to be explained. — To what, then, can be owing this 
desire of the good opinion and esteem of those who are to 
come after us, and whose opinion, be it good or ill, can in 
no way affect our happiness ? Philosophers have been sadly 
at a loss to account for it, especially those who trace the de- 
sire of esteem to a selfish origin. Some, with Wollaston 
and Smith, have referred it to the illusions of the imagina- 
tion, by which we seem, to ourselves, to be present, and to 
witness the honors, and listen to the praises, which the future 
is to bestow. Such an illusion may possibly arise in some 
hour of reverie, some day-dream of the mind ; but it is im- 



508 DESIRES ARISING FROM 

possible to suppose that any one of sound mind should be 
permanently influenced by such an illusion, or fail to per- 
ceive, when reason resumes her sway, that it is an illusion, 
and that only. 

Admits of Explanation in another Way. — If, however, 
we regard the desire of the good opinion of others as an 
original principle of our nature, and not as springing from 
selfish considerations, it is easy to see how the same princi- 
ple may extend to the future. If, irrespective of personal 
advantage, we desire the esteem of our fellow-men while 
we live, so, also, without regard to such advantage, we may 
desire their good opinion when we are no longer among 
them. 

True, it is only a name that is transmitted and honored, 
as WoUaston says, and not the man himself. He does not 
live because his name does, nor is he known because his 
name is known. As in those lines of Cowley, quoted by 
Stewart : 

" 'Tis true the two immortal syllables remain ; 
But, 0! ye learned men, explain 
What essence, substance, what hypostasis 
In five poor letters is ? 
In these alone does the great Caesar live— 
'Tis all the conquered ^vo^ld could give." 

Yet reason as we may, it is no trait of a noble and ingen- 
uous mind to be regardless of the opinions of the future. 
The common sentiment of men, even the wisest and the 
best, finds itself, after all, much more influenced by such 
considerations than by any reasoning to the contrary. 

Not unworthy of a noble Mind. — Nor is it altogether 
unworthy of the ambition of a noble and generous mind to 
leave a good name as a legacy to the future ; in the lan- 
guage of Mr. Stewart, " to be able to entail on the casual 
combination of letters which compose our name, the respect 
of distant ages, and the ble-sings of generations yet unborn. 
Nor is it an unworthy object of the most rational benevo- 



THE CONSTITUTION OF THE MIND. 509 

leiice to render these letters a sort of magical spell for kin- 
dling the emulation of the wise and good whenever they 
shall reach the human ear." 

Desire of Esteem not a safe Rule of Conduct.— I would 
by no means be understood, however, to present the desire 
of esteem as, on the whole, a safe and suitable rule of con- 
duct, or to justify that inordinate ambition which too fre- 
quently seeks distinction regardless of the means by which 
it is acquired, or of any useful end to be accomplished. 
The mere love of fame is by no means the highest princi- 
ple of action by which man is guided — by no means the 
noblest or the safest. It is ever liable to abuse. Its ten- 
dencies are questionable. The man who has no higher 
principle than a regard to the opinions of others is not 
likely to accomplish any thing great or noble. He will lack 
that prime element of greatness, consistency of character 
and purpose. His conduct and his principles will vary to 
suit the changing aspect of the times. He will, almost of 
necessity, also lack firmness and strength of character. It 
is necessary, sometimes, for the wise and good man to re- 
sist the force and pressure of public opinion. He must do 
that, or abandon his principles, and prove false at once to 
duty, and to himself. To do this costs much. It requires, 
and, at the same time, imparts, true strength. Such strength 
comes in no other way. That mind is essentially weak that 
depends for its point of support on the applause of man. 
In the noble language of Oicero, ^^To me, indeed, those 
actions seem all the more praiseworthy which we perform 
without regard to public favor, and without observation of 
man. The true theatre for virtue is conscience; there is 
none greater." The praise of man confers no solid happi- 
ness, unless it is felt to be deserved ; and if it he so, that 
very consciousness is sufficient. 

Disregard of public Opinion equally unsafe.— It must be 
confessed, however, that if a regard to the opinions of 
others is not to be adopted as a wise and safe rule of con- 



510 HOPE AND FEAR. 

duct, an entire disregcard of public opinion is, on the other 
hand, a mark neither of a well-ordered mind, nor of a vir- 
tuous character. ** Contempta fama,*' says Tacitus, "con- 
temnantur virtutes." 

Accordingly we find that those who, from any cause, 
have lost their character and standing in society, and fo. - 
feited the good opinion of their fellow-men, are apt to be- 
come desperate and reckless, and ready for any crime. 



CHAPTEH iV. 

HOPE AND FEAR. 



Nature of these Emotions. — In the analysis of the sensi- 
bilities, which was given in a preceding chapter, hope and 
fear were classed as modifications of desire and aversion, 
having reference to the probability that the object whicli is 
desired or feared may be realized. Desire always relates to 
something in the future, and something that is agreeable, 
or viewed as such, and also something possible, or that is 
so regarded. Add to this future agreeable something the 
idea or element of probaMliiy, let it be not only something 
possible to be attained, but not unlikely to be, and what 
was before but mere desire, more or less earnest, now be- 
comes Jiope, more or less definite or strong, according as the 
object is more or less desirable, and more or less likely to be 
realized. And the same is true of fear ; an emotion awak- 
ened in view of any object regarded as disagreeable, in the 
future, and as more or less likely to be met. 

As desire and aversion do not necessarily relate to dif- 
ferent objects, but are simply counterparts of each other, 
the desire of any good implying always an aversion to its 
loss, so, also, hope and fear may both be awakened by the 
fnime object, according as the gaining or losing of the object 



HOPE AND FEAR. 511 

becomes the more probable. What we hope to gain we fear 
to lose. What we fear to meet, we hope to escape. 

The Strength of the Eeeling dependent, in part, on the 
Importance of the Object. — The degree of the emotion, how- 
ever, in either case, the readiness with which it is awakened, 
and the force and liveliness with which it affects the mind, 
are not altogether in proportion to the probability merely 
that the thing will, or will not, be as we hope or fear, but 
somewhat in proportion, also, to the importance of the ob- 
ject itself. That which is quite essential to our happiness is 
more ardently desired, than what is of much less consequence, 
though, perhaps, much more likely to be attained ; and be- 
cause it is more important and desirable, even a slight pros- 
pect of its attainment, or a slight reason to apprehend its 
loss, more readily awakens our hopes, and our fears, and more 
deeply impresses and agitates the mind, than even a much 
stronger probability would do in cases of less importance. 
What we very much desire, we are inclined to hope for, what 
we are strongly averse to, we are readily disposed to fear. 
Nothing is more desirable to the victim of disease than re- 
covery, and hence his hope and almost confident expectation 
that he shall recover, when, perhaps, to every eye but his 
own, the case is hopeless. Nothing could be more dreadful 
to the miser than the loss of his treasure, and nothing, ac- 
cordingly, does he so much fear. Poverty would be to him 
the greatest of possible calamities, and of this, accordingly, 
he lives in constant apprehension. Yet nothing is really 
more unlikely to occur. It is the tendency of the mind, in 
such cases, to magnify both the danger of the evil, on the 
one hand, and the prospect of good on the other. 

Illustration from the case of a Traveller.— "There can 
be no question," says Dr. Brown, ^Hhat he who travels in 
the same carriage, with the same external appearances of 
every kind, by which a robber could be tempted or terrified, 
will be in equal danger of attack, whether he carry with him 
little of which he can be plundered, or such a booty as 



51;:^ HOPE AND FEAR. 

would impoverish him if it wc)*e lost. But there can he no 
question, also, that thougli the probabilities of danger be the 
same, the fear of attack would, in these two cases, be very 
different ; that, in the one case, he would laugh at the 
ridiculous terror ol* any one who journeyed with him, and 
expressed much alarm at the approach of evening ; — and 
that, in the other case, his own eye would watch, suspi- 
ciously, every horseman who apj^roached, and would feel a 
sort of relief when he observed him pass carelessly and 
quietly along, at a considerable distance behind." 

Uneasiness attending the sudden Acquisition of Wealth. 
— This tendency of the imagination to exaggerate the real, 
and conjure up a thousand unreal dangers, when any thing 
of peculiar value is in possession, which it is certainly possi- 
ble, and it may be slightly probable, that we may lose, may, 
perhaps, account for the uneasiness, amounting often to ex- 
treme anxiety, that frequently accompanies the sudden ac- 
quisition of wealth. The poor cobbler, at his last, is a merry 
man, whistling ut his work, from morning till night. Be- 
queath him a fortune, and he quits at once his last and his 
music ; he is no longer the light-hearted man that he was ; 
his step is cautious, his look anxious and suspicious ; he 
grows care-worn and old. He that was never so happy in 
his life as when a poor man, now dreads nothing so much 
as poverty. While he was poor, there was nothing to fear, 
but every thing to hope, from the future ; now that he is 
rich, there is nothing further to hope, but much to fear, 
since if the future brings any change in his condition, as it 
is not unlikely to do, it will, in all probability, be a change, 
not from wealth to still greater wealth, but from present 
affluence to his former pcnni-y. 

The Pleasure of Hope surpasses the Pleasure of Reality. 
— It will, doubtless, be found generally true, that the pleas- 
ure of hope surpasses the pleasure derived from the realiza- 
tion of the object wished and hoped for. The imagination 
invests with ideal excellence the good that is still future, and 
when the hour of possession and enjoyment comes, the 



HOPE AKD FEAR. 513 

reality does not fully answer the expectation. Or, as in the 
case, already supposed, of the acquisition of wealth, there 
come along with the desired and expected treasure, a thou- 
sand cares and anxieties that were not anticipated, and that 
go far to diminish the enjoyment of the acquisition. From 
these, and other, causes, it happens, I believe, not unfre- 
quently, that those enjoy the most, who have really the 
least, whether of wealth, or of any other good which the 
mind naturally desires as a means of happiness ; nor can we 
fail to see in this a beautiful provision of divine benevolence 
for the happiness of the great human family. 

Influence on the Mind. — The influence of hope, upon the 
human mind, is universally felt, and recognized, as one of 
the most powerful and permanent of those varied influences, 
and laws of being, that make us what we are. It is limited 
to no period of life, no clime and country, no age of the 
world, no condition of society, or of individual fortune. It 
cheers us, alike, in the childhood of our being, in the ma- 
turity of our riper years, and in the second childhood of 
advancing age. There is no good which it cannot promise, 
no evil for which it cannot suggest a remedy and a way of 
escape, no sorrow which it cannot assuage. It is strength 
to the weary, courage to the desponding, life to the dying, 
joy to the desolate. It lingers with gentle step about the 
couch of the suffering, when human skill can do no more; 
and, upon the tombs of those whose departure we mourn, 
it hangs the unfading garland of a blessed immortality. 

*' Angel of life ! thy glittering wings explore 
Earth's loveliest bounds, and ocean's widest shore." 

The same poet who sang so well the pleasures of hope, 
has depicted the influence of this emotion, on the mind 
which some great calamity has bereft of reason. 

*' Hark, the wild maniac sings to chide the gale 

That wafts so slow her lover's distant sail ; 

***** 

22* 



^14 HOPE AND FEAR. 

Oft when yon moon luis climbed the midnight sky 

And the lone sea-bird wakes its wildest cry, 

Piled on the steep, her blazing fagots burn 

To hail the bark that never can return ; 

And still she waits, but scarce forbears to weep, 

That constant love can linger on the deep." 

It is, indeed, a touching incident, illustrative not more 
of the strength of this principle of our nature, than of the 
benevolence which framed our mental and moral constitu- 
tion, that when, under the heavy pressure of earthly ills, 
reason deserts her empire, and leaves the throne of the hu- 
man mind vacant, Hojoe still lingers to cheer even the poor 
maniac, and calmly takes her seat upon that vacant throne, 
even as the radiant angels sat upon the stone by the door 
of the empty sepulchre. 



MENTAL PHILOSOPHY 



<^>- 



DIVI SION THIRD. 



THE WILL 



THE WILL. 



PRELIMINARY OBSERVATIONS. 

Leading Divisions. — In our analysis and distribution of 
the powers of the mind, they were divided into three ge- 
neric classes, viz., Intellect, Sensibility, and Will. Of these, 
the two former have been discussed in the preceding pages; 
it now remains to enter upon the examination of the third. 

Importance and Difficulty of this Department. — This is, 
in many respects, at once the most important and the most 
difficult of the three. Its difficulty becomes apparent when 
we consider what questions arise respecting this power of 
the mind, and what diverse and conflicting views have been 
entertained, not among philosophers only, but among all 
classes of men, and in all ages of the world, concerning 
these matters. Its importance is evident from the relation 
which this faculty sustains to the other powers of the mind, 
and from its direct and intimate connection with some of 
the most practical and personal duties of life. Whatever 
control we have over ourselves, whether as regards the 
bodily or the mental powers, whatever use and disposition 
it is in our power to make of the intellectual faculties with 
which we are endowed, and of the sensibilities which accom- 
pany or give rise to those intellectual activities, and of the 
physical organization which obeys the behests of the sover- 
eign mind, whatever separates and distinguishes us from the 
mere inanimate and mechanical forces of nature on the one 
hand, or the blind impulses of irrational brute instinct on 
the other; for all this, be it more or less, we are indebted 



518 PRELIMINARY OBSERVATIONS. 

to that faculty which we call the Will. And hence it hap- 
pens that in this, as in many other cases, the most abstract 
questions of philosophy become the most practical and im- 
portant questions of life. In every system of mental philos- 
ophy the AVili holds a cardinal place. The system can no 
more be complete without it, than a steamship without the 
engines that are to propel her. As is the view taken of the 
Will, such is essentially the system. 

Relation to Theology. — Nor is it to be overlooked that 
the doctrine of the Will is a cardinal doctrine of theology, 
as well as of psychology. Inasmuch as it has a direct and 
practical bearing upon the formation of character, and upon 
the moral and religious duties of life, it comes properly 
within the sphere of that science which treats of these 
duties, and of man's relation to his Maker. Hence every 
system of theology has to do with the Will; and according 
to the view taken of this faculty, such essentially is the sys- 
tem. If in psychology, still more in theology, is this the 
stand-point of the science. 

Not, therefore, to be treated as a theological Doctrine. — 
Not, however, on this account, is the matter to be treated 
as theological and not strictly psychological. It is a matter 
which pertains properly and purely to psychology. It is 
for that science which treats of the laws and powers of the 
human mind to unfold and explain the activity of this most 
important of all the mental faculties. To this science the- 
ology must come for her data, so far as she has occasion to 
refer to the phenomena of the Will. The same may be said 
of ethical, as well as of theological science. In so far as 
they are concerned with the moral powers, and with the 
human will, they must both depend on psychology. With- 
in her proper sphere they stand, not as teachers, but as 
learners. 

The more Care requisite on this Account.— For this 
reason all the more care is necessary, in the study and ex- 
planation of the present theme. An error in this part of 



PRELIMIN"ARY OBSERVATIOKS. 519 

the investigation is likely to extend beyond the bounds of 
the science itself, into other and kindred sciences. The 
most serious consequences may flow from it, in other and 
wider fields of thought. 

Sources of Information.— The sources of our information 
are essentially the same in this as in the preceding divisions 
of the science. They are twofold ; the consciousness of 
what passes in our own minds, and the observation of 
others. Our single business is to ascertain facts, actual 
phenomena ; not to inquire what might be, or what ought 
to be, according to preconceived notions and theories, but 
what is. This is to be learned, not by reasoning and logical 
argument, but by simple observation of phenomena. Hav- 
ing once ascertained these, we may infer, and conclude, and 
reason from them, as far as we please, and our conclusions 
will be correct, provided the data are correct from which 
we set forth, and provided we reason correctly from these 
principles. 

Method to be pursued. — In treating of this department 
of mental activity, it will be our first business, then, to point 
out the w^ell established and evident facts, pertaining to the 
matter in hand, viewed simply as psychological phenomena, 
as modes in which the human mind manifests itself in ac- 
tion, according to the laws of its constitution. These being 
ascertained, we shall be prepared to consider some of the 
more difficult and doubtful matters respecting the will, on 
which the world has long been divided, and which can never 
be intelligently discussed, much less settled, without a clear 
understanding, in the first place, of the psychological facts 
in the case, about which there need be, and should be, no 
dispute. 



CHAPTER K 

NATURE OF THE WILL 

What the Will is. — I understand, by the will, that power 
which the mind has of determining or deciding what it will 
do, and of putting forth volitions accordingly. The will is 
the poiver of doing this; willing, is the exercise of the power; 
volition, is the deed, the thing done. The will is but an- 
other name for the executive power of the mind. What- 
ever we do intelligently and intentionally, whether it implies 
an exercise of the intellect, or of the feelings, or of both, 
that is an act of the will. All our voluntary, in distinction 
from our involuntary movements of the body, and move- 
ments of mind, are the immediate results of the activity of 
the Will. 

Condition of a Being destitute of Will. — ^Ye can, per- 
haps, conceive of a being endowed with intellect and sen- 
sibility, but without the faculty of will. Such a being, 
however superior he might be to the brutes in point of intel- 
ligence, would, so far as regards the capacities of action, be 
even their inferior, since his actions must be, as theirs, the 
result of mere sensational impulse, without even that unerr- 
ing instinct to guide him, which the brute possesses, and 
which supplies the place of reason and intelligent will. To 
this wretched Condition man virtually approximates when, 
by any means, the will becomes so far enfeebled, or brought 
under the dominion of appetite and passion, as to lose the 
actual control of the mental and physical powers. 

Will not distinct from the Mind. — It must be borne in 
mind, of course, as wo })roceed, tliat the will is nothing but 
the mind itself wiUiug, or having power to will, and not 
something distinct from the mind, or even a parf of the 



K A T U K E r T H E W I L L. 521 

mind, as the handle and the blade are distinct parts on the 
knife. The power to think, the power to feel, the power to 
will, are distinct powers, but the mind is one and indivisible, 
exercising now one, now another, of these powers. 

§ I.-ELEMENTS INVOLVED IN AN ACT OF WILL. 

Proposed Analysis. — In order to the better understand- 
ing of the nature of this faculty, let us first analyze its oper- 
ations, with a view to ascertain the several distinct stages or 
elements of the mental process which takes place. We will 
then take up these several elements, one by one, for special 
investigation. 

Observation of an Act of Will. — What, then, are the 
essential phenomena of an act of the will ? Let us arrest 
ourselves in the process of putting forth an act of this kind, 
and observe precisely what it is that we do, and what are 
the essential data in the case. I am sitting at my table. I 
reach forth my hand to take a book. Here is an act of my 
will. My arm went not forth self-moved and spontaneously, 
it was sent, was bidden to go ; the soul seated Avithin, ani- 
mating this physical organism, and making it subservient 
to her will, moved that arm. Here, then, is clearly an act 
of will. Let us subject it to the test of observation. 

The first Element. — First of all, then, there was evi- 
dently, in this case, something to he done — an end to be ac- 
complished — a book to be reached. The action, both of 
body and of mind, was directed to that end, and but for 
that the volition would not have been put forth. It is to be 
observed, moreover, that the end to be accomplished, in 
this case, was a possible one — the book was, or was sup- 
posed to be, within my reach. Otherwise I should not have 
attempted to reach it. 

A second Element. — I observe, furthermore, in the case 
under consideration, a motive, impelling or inducing to 
that end; a reason ivhy I willed the act. It w^as curiosity, 



522 NATURE OF THE WILL. 

perhaps, to see-what the book was, or it may have been 
some other principle of my nature, which induced me to 
put fortli the volition. 

A further Step in the Process. — But the motive does 
not, itself, produce the act. It is merely the reason why I 
produce it. It has to do not directly with the action, but 
with me. Its immediate effect terminates on me, and it is 
only indirectly that it affects the final act. The next step in 
the process, then, is to be sought, not in the final act, but in 
my mind as influenced by motive ; and that step is my 
choice. Previous to my putting forth the volition to move 
my arm, there was a choice or decision to do so. In view 
of the end to be accomplished, and influenced by the mo- 
tive, I made np my mind — to use a common but not inapt 
expression — to perform the act. The question arose, for 
the instant. Shall I do it ? The very occurrence of a thing 
to be done, a possible thing, and of a motive for doing it, 
raises, of itself, the question. Shall it be done ? The ques- 
tion may be at once decided in the affirmative, in the ab- 
sence of reasons to the contrary, or, in the absence of reflec- 
tion, so quickly decided, that, afterward, we sliall hardly be 
conscious that it was ever before the mind. Or it may be 
otherwise. Reasons to the contrary suggest themselves 
— counter influences and motives — in view of which we 
hesitate, deliberate, decide; and that decision, in view of all 
the circumstances, is our preference, or choice. In most 
cases the process is so rapid as to escape attention ; but sub- 
sequent reflection can hardly fail to detect such a process, 
more or less distinctly marked. 

The final Stage of the Act. — We have reached now the 
point at which it is decided, in our own minds, what course to 
pursue. In the case su])]ioscd, I have decided to take up the 
book. The volition is not yet put forth. Nothing now 
remains, however, but to ])ut forth the volition, and at once 
the muscular organism, if unimpeded and in health, obeys 
the will. The thing is done, and the experiment concluded. 



I 



NATURE OF THE WILL, 523 

Summary of Results. — I repeat now the experiment ten 
or a hundred times, but alv/ays with hke results. I find 
always, where there is an act of the will, some end to be 
obtained, some motive, a choice, an executive volition. I 
conclude that these are the essential phenomena of all 
voluntary action. 

Of these, the two former, viz., the end to be accom- 
plished, and the motive, may be regarded as more properly 
conditions of volition, than constituent elements of it. 
Still, so intimately is the volition connected with one, at 
least, of these conditions, viz., the motive, that it claims 
special consideration. The ends to be accomplished by 
volition are as numerous as the infinite variety of human 
purposes and actions, and, of course, admit of no complete 
enumeration or classification. We confine our further at- 
tention, then, to these elements — the motive, the choice, 
the executive volition — and proceed to their more careful 
investigation as phenomena of the will. 



§ II.-INVESTIGATION OF THESE ELEMENTS. 

The first of these Elements, Motive, always implied in Ac- 
tion. — I. The Motive — that which incites the mind to 
action — the reason why it acts, and acts as it does. We 
never act without some such incitement, some reason for 
acting ; at least this is true of all our intelligent and volun- 
tary actions, of which, alone, we now speak. It may be 
nothing more than mere present impulse, mere animal ap- 
petit3 or passion ; even that is a motive, a reason why we 
act. We cannot conceive of any being having the power 
of voluntary action, and exerting that power witliout any 
reason loliatever why he did it. The reason may, or may 
not, be clearly apprehended by his own mind — that is an- 
other question ; but whether distinctly and clearly recog- 
nized as such, or not, by our own minds, a reason there 
always is for what we do. 



624 NATURE OF THE AVILL. 

In what Sense this Term employed.— Strictly speaking, 
tlic motive is not any and every iuliuence which may bear 
U2)on the mind as an inducement to action, but only the 
prevailing inducement, that which actually moves or induces 
us to i^erform the proposed act. In this sense, there may be 
many different inducements, but only one motive. Such, 
however, is not the ordinary use of the term. That is usu- 
ally called a motive which is of a nature to influence the 
mind, and induce volition, whether it is, in the given case, 
effective, or not. To avoid confusion, I adopt the general use. 

Nature of Motives. — As to the nature of the motives 
from which we act, they are manifestly of two kinds, and 
widely distinct. There is desire, and there is the sense of 
moral obligation or duty ;— the agreeable, and the right ; 
each of these constitutes a powerful motive to action. We 
find ourselves, under the influence of these motives, acting, 
now from desire, now from sense of duty, now in view of 
what is in itself agreeable, and now in view of what is 
right ; and the various motives which influence us and 
result in action, may be resolved into one or the other of 
these powerful elements. 

These Elements distinguished. — These are quite distinct 
elements, never to be confounded with, nor resolved into, 
each other. Desire is the feeling which arises in view of 
some good not in present possession, something agreeable, 
and to be obtained ; it looks forward to that; its root and 
spring is that grand principle of our nature, the love of 
happiness. Its appeal is to that. Its strength lies in that. 
Duttfy as we have already shown — that sense of obligation 
which is implied in the very idea of right — is quite another 
principle tlian that, not founded in that; springs not from 
self-love, or the desire of happiness ; is, on the contrary, a 
simple, primitive, fundamental idea of the human mind, 
based in the inherent, essential, eternal nature of things. 
Given the right, the perception of right, and there is given, 
also, along with it, the sense of obligation. 



I 



iVTATURE OE THE WILL. 525 

Their Action not always in Unison.— These two motives 
may act in different directions ; they frequently do so. De- 
sire impels me one way, duty another. Conflict then arises. 
Which shall prevail, desire or duty, depends on circum- 
stances, on my character already formed, my habits of 
thought and feeling, my degree of self-control, my con- 
scientiousness, the strength of my native propensities, the 
clearness with which, at the time, I apprehend the different 
courses of conduct proposed, their character and their con- 
sequences. Desire may prevail, and then I go counter to 
my sense of obUgation. Kemorse follows. I am wretched. 
I suffer penalty. Duty prevails, and I do that which I be- 
lieve to be right, regardless of consequences. I suffer in 
property, health, life, external good, but am sustained by 
that approving voice within, which more than compensates 
for all such losses. 

That there are these two springs or motives of human 
action, and that they are didinct from each other^ is what 
I affirm, and what no one, I think, who reflects on what 
consciousness reveals, will be disposed to deny. 

Motives of Duty not resolvable into Motives of Interest. 
— Should any still contend that this very approval of con- 
science, this peace and happiness which result from doing 
right, are, themselves, the motive to action, in the case sup- 
posed, and so, self-love, a desire of happiness, is, after all, 
the only motive, I reply, this is an assumption utterly with- 
out proof. Consciousness contradicts it. The history of 
the human race contradicts it. There is such a thing as 
doing right for its own sake, irrespective of good to our- 
selves. Every man is conscious of such distinction, and of 
its force as a motive of conduct. Every virtuous man is 
conscious of acting, at times, at least, from such a motive. 

Coincidence of Desire and Duty. — It is only when desire 
and duty coincide, that the highest happiness can be 
reached, when we no longer desire and long for, because 
we no longer view as agreeable, that which is not strictly 



526 NATURE OF THE WILL. 

right. This is a state never fully realizetl in this life. It 
implies perfection of character, and a perfect world. 

Desires, as Motives of Action, further distinguished. — 
Desire, and the feeling of obligation, I have spoken of as 
motives of conduct. The former, again, is not always of 
one sort. Desire is, indeed, in itself, a simple element, 
springing from one source, but not always directed to the 
same object. We desire now one thing, now another. 
There are two classes, at least, of desires quite easy to be 
distinguished, the physical and the psychical, the one relat- 
ing to the wants of the body, the other to the craving of 
the higher nature ; the mere animal instincts, propensities, 
passions, looking to animal gratification ; and the higher 
rational self-love, which seeks the true and permanent well- 
being, under the guidance of reason. Each of these fur- 
nishes a powerful motive, or class of motives, to human ac- 
tion. They are each, however, but different forms o^ desire. 

The second Element, Choice, always involved in Volition. 
— II. Choice. — This is an essential element in volition, and 
next in order. As, setting aside such acts as are purely 
spontaneous and mechanical, we never, intelligently and 
purposely, do any thing without a volition to do it, so we 
never put forth volition without exercising choice. The 
act performed is not a voluntary act, unless it is something 
which I choose to do. True, my choice may be influenced 
by extraneous causes — may even be constrained — circum- 
stances may virtually compel me to choose as I do, by shut- 
tmg me up to this one course, as being either the only 
right, or the only desirable course. And these circum- 
stances, that thus influence my decisions, may be essen- 
tially beyond my control, as they not unfrcquently are. 
Yet, all things considered, it is my choice to do thus and 
not otherwise, and so long as I do choose, and am free to 
act accordingly, the act is voluntary. 

The Position illustrated. — This may be illustrated by the 
case of the soldier who, in the bombardment of his native 



JSTATUJIE OF THE WILL. 527 

city, is ordered to point his piece in the direction of his own 
dwelling. To disobey, is death. To obey, is to pat in 
jeopardy those who are dear to him. He hesitates, but 
finally chooses to obey orders. He aims his piece as di- 
rected, sadly against his inclination; yet, on the whole, it 
is his choice to do it. He prefers that to the certainty of 
dishonorable death, a death which would in no way benefit 
or protect those whom he wishes to save. A man, of his 
own accord, lies down upon the surgeon's operating table, 
and stretches out his arm to the knife. It is his choice — a 
hard choice,- indeed, but, nevertheless, decidedly his choice. 
He prefers that to still greater suffering, or even death. In 
these cases — and they are only instances and illustrations 
of what, in a less marked and decided way, is continually 
occurring — we see the utmost strain and pressure of cir- 
cumstances upon a man's choice, making it morally certain 
that he will decide as he does, shutting him up to that de- 
cision, in fact, yet his choice remaining unimpaired, and 
his act a/ree act ; free, because he does as he, on the whole, 
and under the circumstances, chooses to do. He does the 
thing voluntarily. 

Another Case supposed. — Suppose, now, the man were 
forcibly seized, and borne by sheer strength to the table, 
and placed upon it, and held there while the operation was 
performed. In that case,he no longer acts,is only acted upon, 
no longer chooses and wills to go there, nay, chooses and wills 
directly the contrary. The difference in the two cases, is the 
difference between a voluntary act, chosen reluctantly, in- 
deed, and under the pressure of an exigency, but still cJiosen, 
and the passive suffering of an action which, so far from 
being voluntary, was, in no sense, an act of his own. 

Choice always influenced by Circumstances. — Now, as 
regards the actual operation of things, our choices are, in 
fact, always influenced by circumstances, and these circum- 
stances are various and innumerable ; a thousand seen and 
unseen influences are at work upon us, to affect our decisions. 



528 NATURE OF THE WILL. 

Were it possible to estimate aright all these iufluences, to 
calculate, with precision, their exact weight and effect, then 
our choice, under any given circumstances, might be pre- 
dicted with unerring certainty. This can never be exactly 
known to man. Sagacity may approximate to it, and may, 
so far, be able to read the future, and predict the probable 
conduct of men in given circumstances. To the omniscient, 
these things are fully known, and to his eye, therefore, the 
whole future of our lives, our free choices and vohintary 
acts, lie open before they are yet known to ourselves. 

Conclusion stated. — From what has been said, it appears 
that it is not inconsistent with the nature of choice, to be 
influenced, nay, decided by circumstances, even when those 
circumstances are beyond our control. 

Diversity of Objects essential to Choice. — Wliat is implied 
in an act of choice ? Several things. In order to choice, 
there must, of course, be diversity of objects from which to 
choose. If there were but one possible course to be pur- 
sued, it were absurd to speak of choice. Hence, even iu 
the cases just now supposed, there was a diversity of objects 
from which to choose — death, or obedience to orders, suffer- 
ing from the surgery, or greater suffering and danger with- 
out it, and between these the man made his choice. 

Liberty of Selection also essential. — As a further condi- 
tion of choice, there is implied liberty of selection from 
among the different objects proposed. It were of no use 
that there should be different courses of conduct— different 
ends, or different means of attaining an end — proposed to 
our understanding, if it were not in our power to select 
which we pleased, if we were not free to go which way we 
will. Choice always implies that different actions and vo- 
litions are possible, and are, as such, submitted to our de- 
cision and preference. There can be no volition witliout 
choice, and no choice without liberty to choose. Whatever 
interferes, then, with that liberty, and diminishes or takes 
it away, interferes, also, with my ciioice, and diminishes or 



MATURE OF THE WILL. 529 

destroys that. The very essence of a voluntary act consists 
in its being an act of choice, or a free-will act. No tyranny 
can take this away, except such as destroys, also, all volun- 
tary and responsible action. You may command me to 
burn incense on a heathen altar. The very command leaves 
it optional with me whether to obey. If I do not, the pen- 
alty is death. Very well — I may cJioose the penalty, rather 
than the crime, and no power on earth can compel me to 
choose otherwise. I die, but I die a free man. True, you 
may bind me, and by mechanical force urge me to the 
altar, and by superior strength of other arms, may cause 
my hand to put incense there, but it is not my act then; 
it is the act of those who use me as a mere passive instru- 
ment ; it is no more my act, than it would be the act of so 
much iron or wood, or other instrument. 

Deliberation implied. — Choice, moreover, implies delib- 
eration, the balancing and weighing of inducements, the 
comparison and estimate of the several goods proposed, the 
several ends and objects, the various means to those ends ; 
the exercise of reason and judgment in this process. I see 
before me different courses, different ends proposed to my 
understanding, am conscious of diverse inducements and 
reasons, some urging me in one direction, some in another. 
Native propensities impel me toward this line of conduct. 
Eational self-love puts in a claim for quite another proce- 
dure. Benevolence, and a sense of duty, it may be, con- 
spire to urge me in still another direction. I am at liberty 
to choose, I must choose. I can go this way or that, must 
go in one or the other. I hesitate, deliberate, am at a loss. 

Now there is no choice which does not virtually involve 
some process of this kind. It may be very rapid ; so rapid 
as to escape detection, in many cases, so that we are hardly 
conscious of the process. In other cases, we are painfully 
conscious of the whole scene ; we hesitate long, are iu doubt 
and suspense between conflicting motives and interests. 
Desire and duty wage a fierce contest within us. Shall we 



530 NATURE OK T H K WILL. 

choose the agreeable ? Shall we clioose the right ? And 
then, again, which is really the agreeable, and which is truly 
the right ? 

Final Decision. — As the result of this deliberation, we 
finally decide, one way, or the other. This decision is our 
preference, our choice. Our minds, as we say, are made 
up what to do, what course to pursue. When the time 
comes, we shall act. Something may prevent our having 
our way, opportunity may not offer, or we may see fit, sub- 
sequently, to reconsider and revoke our decision. Other- 
wise, our choice is carried out in action. 

Choice implies, then, these things: diversity of objects, 
liberty of selection, deliberation, decision, or preference. 

The final Element.— III. Executive Volition. — In 
our investigation of the several elements or momenta of an 
act of the Will, we have as yet considered but two, viz., 
motive and choice — the first, more properly a condition of 
voluntary action, than itself a constituent part of it, yet 
still, a condition so indispensably connected with volition, as 
to require investigation in connection with the latter. It 
only remains now to notice the last stage of the process, the 
final element, which added, the process is complete — that 
is, the executive act of the mind, volition properly so called. 
When the objects to be attained have been presented, when 
the motives or inducements to action have been considered, 
when, in view of all, the choice or preference has been 
made, it still remams to put forth the volition, or the act 
will not be performed. This may never happen. Oppor- 
tunity may never offer. But suppose it does. We will 
This done, the bodily mechanism springs into play, obedi- 
ent to the call and command of the soul. 

Even now, the action does not of necessity correspond 
to the volition. Even now, we may be disappointed. Other 
wills may be in action in opposition to ours. Other arms 
may move in obedience to those other wills. Or vvc may 
find the thing too mihch for us to do, iin])racticab]e, beyond 



RELATION OF THE WILL, ETC. 531 

our strength and means, or disease may palsy the frame, so 
that it shall not obey the mandate of the spirit. Never- 
theless the volition is complete. That depends not on the 
success of the exertion. We have luilled, and with that 
our mental action ceases. What remains is physical, not 
psychological. If we succeed, if the volition finds itself 
answered in execution, then, also, the act once performed 
is thenceforth out of our power. It is done, and stands a 
permanent historic event, beyond our control, beyond our 
decision or revocation. Our power over it ceases in the 
moment of volition. Our connection with it may never 
cease. It moves on in its inevitable career of consequences, 
and, like a swift river, bears us along with it. We have no 
more to do with it, but it has to do with us ; it may be to 
our sorrow, it may be, forever. 

Such are, in brief, the main psychological facts, relating 
to the will, as they offer themselves to our consciousness 
and careful inspection. 



CHAPTHH H. 

RELATION OF THE WILL TO OTHER POWERS OF 
THE MIND. 

Activity of the Intellect in Volition.— It is a matter of 
some importance to ascertain the relation which the will 
sustains to the other mental powers. There can be no 
doubt that the activity of the will is preceded, in all cases, 
by that of the intellect. I must first perceive some object 
presented to my understanding, before I can will its attain- 
ment. In the case already supposed, the book lying on my 
table is an object within the cognizance of sense, and to 
perceive it is an act of intellect. Until perceived, the will 
puts not forth any volition respecting it. Nor does the 
mere perception occasion volition. In connection with the 



532 RELATION OF THE WILL 

perception of the book, ideas present themselves to the 
mind, curiosity is awakened, the mind is set upon a train 
of thought, which results in the desire and the volition to 
take the book. In all this the intellect is active. In a 
word, whatever comes in as a motive to influence the mind 
in favor of, or against a given course, must in the first in- 
stance address itself to the understanding, and be compre- 
hended by that power, before it can influence the mental 
decisions. A motive which I do not comprehend is no 
motive ; a reason which I do not perceive, or understand, 
is, to me, no reason. 

Activity of the Sensibilities also involved. — But does 
volition immediately follow the action of the intellect in the 
case supposed ? Do we first understand, and then will ; or 
does something else intervene between the intellectual per- 
ception and the volition? Were there no feeling awakened 
by the intellectual perception, would there be any volition 
with regard to the object perceived? I think, I feel, I will ; 
is not that the order of the mental processes ? " We can 
easily imagine," says Mackintosh, "a percipient and think- 
ing being without a capacity of receiving pleasure or pain. 
Such a being might perceive what we do ; if we could con- 
ceive him to reason, he might reason justly ; and if he were 
to judge at all, there seems no reason why he should not 
judge truly. But what could induce such a being to ivill 
or to ad f It seems evident that his existence could only 
be a state of passive contemplation. Reason, as reason, 
can never be a motive to action. It is only when we super- 
add to such a being sensibility, or the capacity of emotion, 
or sentiment of desire and aversion, that we introduce him 
into the world of action." 

Opinion of Locke. — To the same effect, Locke : " Good 
and evil, present and absent, it is true, work upon the mind, 
but that whicli immediately determines the will from time 
to time, to every voluntary action, is the uneasiness of dc- 
sire, fixed on some absent good, either negative, as indolence 



TO OTHER POWERS OF THE MI^-D. 533 

to one in pain^ or positive, as enjoyment of pleasure. That 
it is this uneasiness that determines the will to the succes- 
sive voluntary actions, whereof the greatest part of our lives 
is made up, and by which we are conducted through differ- 
ent courses to different ends, I shall endeavor to show both 
from experience and the reason of the thing." Elsewhere 
again : " For good, though appearing and allowed ever so 
great, yet till it has raised desires in our minds, and there- 
by made us uneasy in its want, it reaches not our wills ; 
we are not within the sphere of its activity." 

Testimony of Consciousness. — The general opinion of 
philosophical writers is now in accordance with the views 
thus expressed. The intellect they regard as acting upon 
the will not directly, but through the medium of the sensi- 
bilities, the various emotions and desires which are awak- 
ened by the perceptions of the intellect. That this is the 
correct view, admits of little doubt. The question is best 
settled by an appeal to consciousness. In the case supposed, 
the perception of the book upon the table does not, of it- 
self, directly influence my will. It is not until some feeling 
is aroused, my curiosity excited, or desire, in some form, 
awakened, that my will acts. The object must not only be 
perceived, but perceived as agreeable, and the wish to pos- 
sess it be entertained, before the volition is put forth. 

Whether this Rule applies in all Cases. — That this is so 
as regards a large class of our volitions, will hardly be de- 
nied. When the motive to action is of the nature of desire, 
it is the sensibility, and not the intellect, that is directly 
concerned in shaping the action of the will. I first perceive 
the object to be agreeable ; I next desire its possession, as 
such ; then I will its attainment. The intellectual activity 
gives rise to emotion, and the latter leads to volition. 

It may be supposed, how^ever, that when the motive which 
influences the will is not of the nature of desire, but rather 
of a sense of obligation or duty, then the case is otherwise, 
the intellectual perception of the right, and of the obligation 



534 RELATION" OF THE WILL. 

to do the right, being sufficient of themselves to lead the 
mind to action. But as the intellectual perception of the 
agreeable is followed by emotion or desire in view of the 
same, so the intellectual perception of the right is followed, 
in like manner, by a certain class of feelings or emotions, 
usually called moral sensibilities; and it is the feeling, in 
either case, and not the knoiving, the sensibility, and not 
the intellect, that is directly in contact with the will. I 
know that I ought, and I feel that I ought, are states of 
mind closely connected, indeed, but not identical ; and it 
]s the latter which leads directly to volition. 

Desire and Volition not always distinguished. — Another 
point requiring mvestigation, is the precise relation between 
volition and desire. Are they the same thing, and if not, 
wherein do they differ? It has been the custom of certain 
writers not to distmguish between desire and volition, as 
states of mind, or to regard them as differing, if at all, only 
in degree. Thus Condillac, and writers of the French 
school, as also Brown, Mill, and others, in Great Britain, 
have treated of volition as only a stronger degree of desire, 
which, again, is only a form of emotion. Even M'Cosh, in 
his treatise on moral government, while insisting on the dis- 
tinction betwean emotions and desires, regards wishes, de- 
sires, and volitions, as belonging essentially to the same 
class of mental states. " Appealing to consciousness," says 
that able and elegant writer, "we assert that there is a class 
of mental states embracing wishes, desires, volitions, which 
cannot be analyzed into anything else. These mental states 
or affections are very numerous, and occupy a place in the 
human mind second to no other. They differ from each 
other in degree, and possibly even in some minor qualities, 
but they all agree in other and more important respects, 
and so are capable of being arranged under one head." 
And in a subsequent paragraph he remarks to the same 
effect, "Later mental inquirers are generally disposed to 
admit that the volition, the positive determination to take a 



TO OTHER POWERS OF THE MIl^D. 535 

particular step, the resolution, for instance, to give a sum of 
money to take our friend to a warmer climate for the resto- 
ration of his health, is more than a mere emotion. But if 
we are thus to constitute a separate attribute to which to 
refer volition, it is worthy of being inquired whether we 
should not arrange, under the same head, wishes, desires, 
and the cognate states, as being more closely allied in their 
nature to volitions than to the common emotions.'* 

The Difference generic. — It is on this latter point that 
we are compelled to join issue with the writer just quoted. 
A wish, a desire, are forms of feeling ; a volition is not. 
The difference is generic, and not one of degree merely. A 
desire differs from any other form of feeling, not so much, 
not so radically, as it differs from a volition. A wish or de- 
sire may lead to volition, or it may not. We often wish or 
desire what we do not will. The object of our desires may 
not be within the sphere of our volitions, may not be pos- 
sible of attainment, may not depend, in any sense, upon our 
wills. Or it may be something which reason and the law 
of right forbid, yet, nevertheless, an object of natural desire. 
And so, on the other hand, we may, from a sense of duty, 
or from the dictates of reason and prudence, will what is 
contrary to our natural inclinations, and our volitions, so 
far from representing our desires, in that case, may be 
directly contrary to them. 

Opinion of Reid. — Accordant Avith the viev^ now ex- 
pressed, are the following remarks of Dr. Reid: ^- With re- 
gard to our actions, we may desire what we do not will, and 
will what we do not desire, nay, what we have a great aver- 
sion to. A man a-thirst has a strong desire to drink, but, 
for some particular reason, he determines not to gratify his 
desire. A judge, from a regard to justice and the duty of 
his office, dooms a criminal to die, while, from humanity 
and particular affection, he desires that he should live. A 
man, for health, may take a nauseous draught for which he 
has no desn-e, but a great aversion. Desire, therefore, even 



53G RE LA TI ox OF THE WILL 

wlien its object is some action of oiir own, is onl}^ an excite- 
ment to the Avill, but is not volition. The determination of 
the mind may be not to do what we desire to do." 

Opinion of Locke. — To the same effect is the following 
from Locke: "This caution, of being careful not to be mis- 
led by expressions that do not enough keep up the differ- 
ence between the will and several acts of the mind that are 
quite distinct from it, I think the more necessary, because 
I find the will often confounded with several of the affec- 
tions, especially desire, and one put for the other, and that 
by men who would not willingly be thought not to have 
had very distinct notions of things, and not to have writ 
vory clearly about them. This, I imagine, has 1 e3n no small 
occasion of obscurity and mistake in this matter; and there- 
fore is, as much as may be, to be avoided. For, he that 
shall turn his thoughts inward upon what passes in his mind 
when he wilU, shall see that the will or power of volition is 
conversant about nothing, but that particular determina- 
tion of the mind, whereby, barely by a thought, the mind 
endeavors to give rise, continuation, or stop to any action 
wiiich it takes to be in its power. This well considered, 
plainly shows that the will is perfectly distinguished from 
desire, which, in the very same action may have quite a con- 
trary tendency from that which our will sets us upon. A 
man whom I cannot deny, may oblige me to use persuasions 
to another, which, at the same time I am speaking, I may 
wish may not jn-evail on him. In this case, it is plain, the 
will and desire run counter. I will the action that tends one 
way, while my desire tends another, and tluit right contrary. 
Whence it is evident," he adds, '■ that desiring and 'rilling 
are two distinct acts of the mind ; and, consequentl}', that 
the ivill, which is but the power of volitio7i, is much more 
distinct from desire" 

Testimony of Consciousness. — The testimony of con- 
sciousness seems to be clearly in accordance with the views 
now expressed. We readily distinguish between our de- 



TO OTHER POWERS OF THE MIND. 537 

sires and our volitions. We are conscious of willing, often, 
what is contrary to our desires; the course which honor and 
duty approve, and which we resolutely carry out, is in dis- 
regard of many fond and cherished desires which still agi- 
tate the bosom. And even when our desires and volitions 
coincide, it requires but little reflection to discover the 
difference between them. It is a difference recognized in 
the common language of life, and in the writings and con- 
versation of men who are by no means theorists or meta- 
physicians. 

Further Illustrations of the Distinction.— Mr. Upham, 
who has very clearly and ably maintained the distinction 
now in question, refers ns, in illustration, to the case of 
Abraham offering his son upon the altar of sacrifice, sternly, 
resolutely willing, in obedience to the divine command, 
what must have been repugnant to every feeling of the 
father's heart ; to the memorable instance of Brutus order- 
ing and witnessing the execution of his own sons, as con- 
spirators against the State, the struggle between the strong 
will and the strong paternal feeling evidently visible in his 
countenance, as he stood at the dreadful scene ; and the 
case of Virginius, plunging the knife into the bosom of a 
beloved daughter, whose dishonor could in no other way be 
averted. In all these, and many other similar cases, private 
interests and personal affections are freely and nobly sacri- 
ficed, in favor of high public interests, and moral ends; yet, 
to do this, the will must act in opposition to the current of 
natural feeling and desire. 



CHAPTER in. 

FREEDOM OF THE WILL 

Problems respecting the Will. — Our attention has thus 
far been directed to the psychological facts respecting the 
will, in itself considered, and also in its relations to the 
other mental powers. It becomes necessary now, in order 
to the more complete understanding of the matter, to look 
at some of the disputed points, the grand problems, respect- 
ing the human will, which have for ages excited and divided 
the reflecting world. The way is prepared for these more 
difficult questions, when once the simple facts, to w^hich our 
attention has already been directed, are well understood. 
These questions are numerous, but, if I mistake not, they 
all resolve themselves virtually into the one general problem 
of the freedom of the will, or, at least, so link themselves 
with that as to admit of discussion in the same connection. 

Freedom, what. — In approaching this much-disputed 
question, it is necessary to ascertain, in the first place, what 
is meant by freedom, and what by freedom of the willy else 
we may discuss the matter to no purpose. Various defini- 
tions of freedom have been given. It is a word in very 
common use, and, in its general application, not liable to 
be misunderstood. Every one who understands the ordinary 
language of life, knows well enough what freedom is. It 
denotes the opposite of restraint; the power to do what one 
likes, pleases, is inclined to do. My person is free, when it 
can come and go, do this or that, as suits my inclination. 
Any faculty of the mind, or organ of the body, is free, whe7i 
its own specific and proper action is not hindered. Freedom 
of motion, is power to move when and where we please. 



FREEDOM OF THE WILL. 539 

Freedom of speech, is power to say what we like. Freedom 
of action, is power to do what we like. 

Freedom of the Will, what. — What, then, is freedom of 
the luill? What can it be but the power of exercising, with- 
out restraint or hindrance, its own specific and proper func- 
tion, viz., the putting forth volitions, just such volitions as 
we please. This, as we have seen, is the proper office of the 
will, its specific and appropriate action. If nothing prevents 
or restrains me from forming and putting forth such voli- 
tions as I please, then my will is free ; and not otherwise. 

Freedom of the will, then, is not power to do tvhat one 
wills, in the sense of executing volitions when formed; 
that is simple freedom of the limbs, and muscular apparatus, 
not of will — a freedom which may be destroyed by a stroke 
of paralysis, or an iron chain ; — it is not a freedom of walk- 
ing, if one wills to walk, or of singing, or flying, or moving 
the right arm, if one is so disposed. That is freedom, but 
not freedom of the luill. My will is free, not when I can do 
what I will to do, but lohen I can will to do just what I 
please. Whatever freedom the will has, must lie within its 
own proper sphere of action, and not without it; must re- 
late to that, and not to something else. This distinction, so 
very obvious, has nevertheless, been sometimes straugely 
overlooked. 

Is, then, the human will free, in the sense now defined ? 
Let us first notice some presumptions in favor of its freedom, 
then the more direct argument. 

§ I.- PRESUMPTIONS IN FAVOR OF FREEDOM. 

The general Conviction of Freedom a Presumption in its 
Favor. — 1. It is a presumption in favor of freedom that 
there is among men, a very general, not to say universal 
conviction of freedom. It is a prevalent idea, an established 
conviction and belief of the mind. We are conscious of 
this belief ourselves, we observe it in others. When we 



540 FREEDOM OF THE WILL. 

l)erform uny act, or choose any course of conduct, we are 
impressed with the belief tb.at we could have done or chosen 
differently, had we been so disposed. We never doubt or 
call in question this ability, in regard to the practical mat- 
ters of life. The languages and the literature of the world 
bear witness to the universality of this belief. Now this 
general conviction and firm belief of freedom constitute, 
to say the least, a presumption, and a strong one, in favor 
of the doctrine. If men are free to do as they like, then 
they are free to tvUlas they like, for the willing precedes the 
doing; and if they are not thus free, how happens this so 
general conviction of a freedom which they do not possess? 
The Appeal to Consciousness. —The argument is some- 
times stated, by the advocates of freedom, in a form which 
is liable to objection. The appeal is made directly to con- 
sciousness. We are conscious, it is said, of freedom, conscious 
of a power, when we do any thing, to do otherwise, to take 
some other course instead. Strictly speaking, we are con- 
scious only of our present state of mind. I may ktioiv the 
past; but it is not a matter of consciousness; I may also 
know, perhaps, what migJit haveheeWj in place of the actual 
past, but of this I am not conscious. When I experience a 
sensation, or put forth a volition, I am conscious of that sen- 
sation or volition ; but I am not conscious of what never 
occurred, that is, of some other feeling or volition instead of 
an actual one. I may have a firm conviction, amounting 
even to knowledge, that at the moment of experiencing that 
feeling, or exercising that volition, it was possible for me to 
have exercised a different one; but it is a conviction, a be- 
lief, at most a knowledge, and not, properly, consciousness. 
I am conscious of the conviction that I am free, and that I 
can do otherwise than as I do ; and this, in itself, is a pre- 
sumption, that I have such a power; but I am not conscious 
of the power itself. It may be said, that if there were any 
restraint upon my will, to prevent my putting for(h such 
volitions as I please, or to prevent my acting otherwise than 



FREEDOM OF THE WILL. 541 

I do, I should be conscious of such restraint ; and this may 
be very true ; and from the absence of any such conscious- 
ness of restraint, I may justly infer that I am free ; but 
this, again, is an infer ence, and not a consciousness. One 
thing, however, I am conscious of, that my actual volitions 
are such, and only such, as I please to put forth ; and this 
leads to the conviction that it is in my power to put forth 
any volition that I may please. 

Our moral Nature a Presumption, in Favor of Freedom. 
— 2. It is a further presumption in favor of the entire free- 
dom of the will, that man's moral nature seems to imply it. 
We approve or condemn the conduct of others. It is with 
the understanding that they acted freely, and could have 
done otherwise. We should never think of praising a man 
for doing what he could not help doing, or of blaming him 
for what it was utterly out of his power to avoid. So, also, 
we approve and condemn our own actions, and always with 
the understanding that these actions and volitions were 
free. There may be regret for that which was unavoidable, 
but never a sense of guilt, never remorse. The existence of 
these feelings always implies freedom of the will, the power to 
have done otherwise. Let any man select that period of his 
history, that act of his whole life, for which he blames him- 
self most, and of which the recollection casts the deepest 
gloom and sadness over all his subsequent years, and let 
him ask himself why it is that he so blames himself for 
that course, and he will find, in every case, that it is be- 
cause he knows that he might have done differently. Take 
away this conviction, and you take away the foundation of 
all his remorse, and of self-condemnation. The same thing 
is implied, also, in the feeling of obligation. It is impossi- 
ble to feel under moral obligation to do what it is utterly 
and absolutely out of our power to do. 

This View maintained by Mr. Upham. — '^ There are some 
truths," says Mr. Upham, "which are so deeply based in 
the human constitution, that all men of all classes receive 



542 F R E E D M O F T H E W I L L . 

them, and act upon thein. They are planted deeply and 
immutably in the soul, and no reasoning, however plausi- 
ble, can shake tliem. And, if we are not mistaken, the 
doctrine of the freedom of the will, as a condition of even 
the possibility of a moral nature, is one of these first truths. 
It seems to be regarded, by all persons, without any excep- 
tion, as a dictate of common sense, and as a first principle 
of our nature, that men are morally accountable, and are 
the subjects of a moral responsibility in any respect, what- 
ever, only so far as they possess freedom, both of the out- 
ward action, and of the will. They hold to this position, 
as an elementary truth, and would no sooner think of let- 
ting it go than of abandoning the conviction of their per- 
sonal existence and identity. They do not profess to go 
into particulars, but they assert it in the mass, that man is 
a moral being only so far as he is free. And such a unani- 
mous and decided testimony, bearing, as it absolutely does, 
the seal and superscription of nature herself, is entitled to 
serious consideration." 

Also by Dr. Reid. — Dr. Reid, also, takes essentially the 
same view. He regards it as a first principle, to be ranked 
in the same class with the conviction of our personal exist- 
ence and identity, and the existence of a material world, 
" that we have some degree of power over our actions, and 
the determinations of our will." It is implied, he main- 
tains, in every act of volition, in all deliberation, and in 
every resolution or purpose formed in consequence of de- 
liberation. *'Itis not more evident," he says, "that man- 
kind have a conviction of the existence of a material world, 
than that they have the conviction of some degree of power 
in themselves, and in others, every one over his own actions, 
and the determinations of his will — a conviction so early, so 
general, and so interwoven with the whole of human con- 
duct, that it must be the natural effect of our constitution, 
and intended by the Author of our being to guide our 
actions." 



FREEDOM OF THE WILL. 543 

Consequences of the Opposite. — 3. The consequences of 
the opposite view afford a presumption in favor of freedom. 

If the will is not free, if all our liberty is merely a liberty 
to do what we will to do, or to execute the volitions which 
we form, but Ave have no power over the volitions them- 
selves, then we- have no power whatever to will or to act 
differently from what we do. This is fatalism. All that 
the fatalist maintains is, that w^e are governed by circum- 
stances out of our own control, so that, situated as we are, 
it is impossible for us to act otherwise than as we do. From 
this follows, as a natural and inevitable consequence, the 
absence of all accountability and obligation. The founda- 
tion of these, as we have already seen, is freedom. Take 
this away, and you strike a fatal blow at man's moral na- 
ture. It is no longer possible for me to feel under obliga- 
tion to do what I have absolutely no power to do, or to be- 
lieve myself accountable for doing what I could not possibly 
avoid. Morality, duty, accountability, become mere chime- 
ras, idle fancies of the brain, devices of the priest and the 
despot, to frighten men into obedience and subjection. 

This View sustained by Facts. — These are not random 
statements. It is a significant fact, that those who have 
undertaken to deny accountability, and moral obligation, 
have, almost without exception, I believe, been advocates of 
the doctrine of necessity. Indeed, it seems impossible to 
maintain such views upon any other ground ; while, on the 
other hand, the denial of the freedom of the will leads al- 
most of necessity to such conclusions. " Eemorse," says Mr. 
Belsham, "is the exquisitely painful feeling which arises 
from the belief that, in circumstances precisely the same, 
we might have chosen and acted differently. This falla- 
cious feeling is superseded by the doctrine of necessity." 

Equally plain, and to the same effect, are the following 
passages from the correspondence of Diderot, as quoted by 
Mr. Stewart : " Examine it narrowly, and you will see that 
the word liberty is a word devoid of meaning ; that there 



544 FREEDOM OF THE WILL. 

are not, and that there cannot be, free beings ; that we are 
only what accords with the general order, with our organi- 
zation, our education, and the chain of events. These dis- 
pose of us invincibly. We can no more conceive of a being 
acting without a motive, than we can of one of the arms of 
a balance acting without a weight. The motive is always 
exterior and. foreign, fastened upon us by some cause dis- 
tinct from ourselves. * * * ^^Q j^^ve been so often 
praised and blamed, and have so often praised and blamed 
others, that we contract an inveterate prejudice of believing 
that we and they will and act freely. But if there is no 
liberty, there is no action that merits either praise or blame; 
neither vice nor virtue ; nothing that ought either to be re- 
warded or punished. * * * r^-^-^Q Jq^j. Qf good is lucky, 
not virtuous. * * * Reproach others for nothing, and 
repent of nothing ; this is the first step to wisdom." 

These Opinions not to be charged upon all Necessitarians. 
— It is not to be supposed, of course, that all who deny the 
freedom of the will, adopt the views above expressed. 
Whether such denial, however, consistently followed out to 
its just and legitimate conclusions, does not lead to such 
results, is another question. 

§ n.-THE DIRECT ARGUMENT. 

Another Mode of Argument. — Thus far we have consid- 
ered only the presumptions in favor of the freedom of the 
will. We find them numerous and strong. The question is, 
however, to be decided not by presumptions for or against, 
but by direct argument based upon a careful inquiry into 
the psychological facts of the case. To tliis let us now pro- 
ceed, bearing in mind, as we advance, w^hat are the essential 
phenomena of the will, as already ascertained, and what is 
meant by freedom of the will as already defined. 

The Will free unless its appropriate Action is hindered. 
— It is evident that, if wc are right in our ideas of what 



FREEDOM OF THE WILL. 545 

freedom is, the will is strictly and properly free, provided 
nothing interferes with, and prevents, our putting forth such 
volitions as we please and choose to put forth. The specific 
and appropriate action of the will, as we have seen, is simply 
to put forth volitions. Whatever freedom it has, then, must 
lie within that sphere, and not without it, must relate to that, 
and not to sometliing else; whatever restraint or want of 
freedom it has, must also he found within these limits. My 
will is free, when I can will to do just what 1 please. 

Strength of Inclination, no Impediment. — If this be so, 
then it is clear, 1. That mere strength of inclination can by 
no means impair the freedom of the will. Be the inclination 
never so strong, it matters not. Nay, so far from interfering 
with freedom, it is an essential element of it. Freedom pre- 
supposes and implies inclination. One is surely none the 
less free because very strongly inclined to do as he likes, pro- 
vided he can do what he wishes or prefers. This is as true 
of the action of the will as of any other action. 

The Source of Inclination, of no Consequence to the pres- 
ent Inquiry.-.-^. It is evident, furthermore, that freedom 
has nothing to do with the source of my inclinations, any 
more than with their strength. It makes no difference what 
causes my preference, or whether any thing causes it. I 
liave a preference, an inclination, a disposition to do a given 
thing, and put forth a given volition — am disposed to do 
it, and can do it — then I am free, my will is free. It 
is of no consequence hoiu I came by that inclination or 
disposition. The simple question is. Am I at liberty to 
follow it ? 

The Interference must be from without, and must affect 
the Choice. — It is evident, moreover, according to what has 
now been said, that if there be really any restraint upon 
the will, or lack of freedom in its movements, it must pro- 
ceed from something extraneous, outside the will itself, 
something which comes in from without, and that in such a 
way as to interfere, in some way, loith my choice ; for it is 



546 FREEDOM OF THE WILL. 

there that the element of freedom hes. But whatever inter- 
feres with my choice, interferes with my ivilling at all ; the 
act is no longer a voluntary act. Choice is essential to voli- 
tion, the very element of it. In order to an act of will, as 
we have seen, there must be liberty to choose, deliberation, 
actual preference. Volition presupposes them, and is based 
on them. Whatever prevents them, prevents volition. What- 
ever places me in such a state of mind that I have no prefer- 
once at all, no choice, as to any given thing, places me in 
such a state that I have also no volition as to that thing. 
The question of freedom is forestalled in such a case, be- 
comes absurd. Where there is no volition, there is of course 
no freedom of volition, nor yet any want of freedom. Free- 
dom of will is power to Avill as I like ; but now I have no 
liking, no preference. 

The Supposition varied. — But suppose now that I am not 
prevented from choosing, but only from carrying out my 
choice in actual volition ; from willing, according to my 
choice. Then, also, the act is no longer properly a volition, 
an act of will, for one essential element of e*^ery such act, 
viz., choice, is wanting. I ]iave a choice, indeed, but it is 
not here, not represented in this so-called volition, lies in 
another direction, is, in fact, altogether opposed to this, my 
so-called volition. Tlffere can be no such volition. The hu- 
man mind is a stranger to any such phenomenon, and if it 
did occur, it would not be volition, not an act of the will, not 
a voluntary act. Whatever, then, comes in, either to prevent 
my choosing, or to prevent my exercising volition according 
to my choice, does, in fact, prevent my willing at all. If 
there be an act of the will, it is, in its very nature, a free 
act, and cannot be otherwise. Allow me to choose, and to 
put forth volition according to my choice, and you leave 
mQ free. Prevent this, and you prevent my willing at all. 

The Limitation, as usually regarded, not really one. — 
Those who contend that the will is not free, place the limit- 
ation back of the choice. Choice is governed by inclina- 



1 



FREEDOM OE THE WILL. 547 

tion, they say, and inclination depends on circumstances ; 
on education, habits, fashion, etc , things, in great measure, 
heyond our control ; and while these circumstances remain 
the same, a man cannot choose otherwise than lie does. To 
this I reply, that, as we have already seen, the will is strictly 
and properly free, provided nothing interferes with, and pre- 
yents, our putting forth such volitions as vv^e choose to put 
forth. Is there, then, any thing in these circumstances 
which are supposed to control our choice, and to be so fatal 
to our freedom, is there in them any thing which really in- 
terferes with, or prevents our willing as we clioose ? Does 
the fact that I am inclined, and strongly so, to a given 
choice, prevent me from putting forth that choice in the 
shape of executive volition ? So far from this, that inclina- 
tion is the very circumstance that leads to my doing it. All 
that could possibly be contended, is that the supposed in- 
clination to a given choice is likely to prevent my having 
some other and different choice. But that has nothing to 
do with the question of the freedom of my will, which de- 
pends, as we have seen, not on the power to choose othenoise 
than one is inclined, or than one likes, but as he likes. 
What force, I ask again, is there in any circumstance, or 
combination of circumstances, which go to mould and shape 
my inclinations and my disposition, and have no further 
p'ower over me, what force in them, or what tendency, to 
prevent my willing as I choose, as I like, as I am inclined ? 
Nay, if my will acts at all, it must, as T have shown, act in 
this way, and therefore act freely. 

Freedom of Inclination not Freedom of Will. — But sup- 
pose I have no power to like, or to be inclined, differently 
from what I do like, and am now inclined ? I reply, it mat- 
ters not as to the present question. The supposition now 
made, takes away or limits, not the freedom of the will, it 
does not touch that ; but the freedom of the affections. Can 
I like what I do not like — and can I put forth such volitions 
as I please or choose — are two distinct questions, and again 



548 FREEDOM OF THE WILL. 

I repeat that the freedom of our will depends, not on our 
having this or that particular choice, but on our being able 
to carry out whatever choice we do make into our volitions ; 
not on our being able to will otherwise than we choose, nor 
yet on our ability to choose otherwise than we do, but sim- 
ply on our being able to will as we choose, whatever that 
choice may be. 

Are the Sensibilities Free. — Have I, in reality, how^ever, 
any freedom of the affections, any power under given cir- 
cwnstances, to be affected otherwise than I am, to feel other- 
wise than I do ? I reply, the affections are not elements of 
the will, are not under its immediate control ; are not 
strictly voluntary. It depends on a great variety of cir- 
cumstances, what, in any given case, your affections or in- 
clinations may be. You have no power of will directly over 
them. You can modify and shape them, only by shaping 
your own voluntary action so far as that bears upon their 
formation. By sliaping your character wliich is under 
your control, you may, in a manner, at least, determine the 
nature and degree of the emotions which will arise, under 
given circumstances, in your bosom. 

The two Questions entirely distinct. — But, however that 
may bo, it has nothing to do, I rejoeat, with the question 
now under discussion. The freedom of the affections, and 
the freedom of the will, are by no means the same thing. 
We have already seen that there may be a fixed and positive 
connection between ni}^ inclinations and my choice, and so 
my will, and yet my will be perfectly free. This is the main 
thing to be settled ; and there seems to be no need of fur- 
ther argument to establish this point ; and if this be so, it 
decides the question as to the freedom of the will. 

Bearing of this View upon the divine Government. — The 
view now taken, leaves it open and quite in the jwwer of 
Providence, so to shape circumstances, guide events, and 
so to array, and bring to bear on the mind of man, motives 
and inducements to any given course, as virtually to control 



CERTAIK QUESTION'S, ETC. 549 

and determine his conduct, by controlling and determining 
his inclinations, and so his choice ; while, at the same time, 
the man is left perfectly free to put forth such volitions as 
he pleases, and to do as he lihes. There can be no higher 
liberty than this. To this point I shall again revert, when 
the question comes up respecting the divine agency in con- 
nection with human freedom. 



CHAPTHH i¥. 

CERTAIN QUESTIONS CONNECTED WITH THE 
PRECEDING. 

§ I.-CONTRARY CHOICE. 

The Question stated. — In the preceding chapters our at- 
tention has been directed to the psychological facts respect- 
ing the will, and also to the general question respecting the 
freedom of the will. Closely connected with this main 
question, and involved in its discussion, are certain inquiries 
of a like nature, which cannot wholly be passed by, and for 
the consideration of which the way is now prepared. One 
of these respects the poiver of contrary choice. Have we 
any such power ? Is the freedom, which, as we have seen, 
belongs to the very nature of the will, such a freedom as 
allows of our choosing, under given circumstances, any other- 
wise than we do ? When I put forth a volition, all other 
things being as they are, can I, at that moment, in place of 
that volition, put forth a different one in its stead ? 

Not identical with the preceding. — This question is not 
identical with that respecting the freedom of the will, for it 
has been already shown that there may be true freedom 
without any such power as that now in question. My will 
is free, provided I can put forth sucli volitions as I please, 
irrespective of the power to substitute other volitions and 
choices in place of the actual ones. 



550 CERTAIN QLKSTIONS 

Such Power not likely to be exercised. — The question, 
however, is one of some importance, "wliethcr we have any 
such power or not. And wliether we have it or not, one 
thing is certain — we are not likely to exercise it. If among 
the fixed and given things, which are to remain as they are, 
we include whatever inclines or induces the mind to choose 
and act as it does, then, power or no power to the contrary, 
the choice luill be as it is, and would be so, if we were to try 
the experiment a thousand times ; for choice depends on 
these preceding circumstances and inducements — the in- 
clination of the mind — and if this is given, and made cer- 
tain, the choice to which it will lead becomes certain also. 
A choice opposed to the existing inclination, to the sum 
total of the existing inducements to action, is not a choice 
at all ; it is a contradiction in terms. The power of con- 
trary choice, then, is one which, from the nature of the 
case, will never be put in requisition, unless something 
lying back of the choice, viz., inclination, be changed 
also. 

But does such Power exist. — The question is not, how- 
ever, whether such a power is likely to be employed, but 
whether it exists ; not whether the choice will he thus and 
thus, but whether it can he otherwise. When, from various 
courses of procedure, all practicable, and at my option, I 
select or choose one which, on the whole, I will pursue, 
have I no power, under those very circumstances, and at 
that very moment, to choose some other course instead of 
that? Can my choice be otherwise than it is? 

In what Sense there is such Power. — Abstractly, I sup- 
pose, it can. Power and inclination are two different things. 
The power to act is one thing, and the disposition to exert 
that power is another thing. Logically, one does not in- 
volve the other. The power may exist w^ithout the disposi- 
tion, or the disposition without the power. There is power, 
logically, abstractly considered, to choose, even when incli- 
nation is wanting; you have only to supply the requisite 



CONNECTED WITH THE PEECEDIl^G. 551 

inclination, and the power is at once exerted^ the choice is 
made, the act is performed. But the change of inclination 
does not create any new power ; it simply puts in requisition 
a power already existing. , 

§ II.-POWER TO DO WHAT WE ARE NOT DISPOSED 
TO DO. 

The duestion under another Form. — Closely analogous 
to the question last discussed, virtually, indeed, the same 
question under another form, is the inquiry, whether we can, 
at any moment, will or do what we are not, at that moment, 
inclined to do. Have I any such power or freedom as this, 
that I CA'S do luliat I am not disposed or do not ivish to do 9 
My disposition being to pursue a given course, is it really in 
my power to pursue a different one ? 

In order to determine this question, let us see what con- 
stitutes, or in what consists, the power of doing, in any case, 
what we are disposed to do ; and then we may be able to 
judge whether that power still exists, in case the disposition 
is wanting. 

In what Power consists. — It is admitted that I can do 
what I wish or am disposed to do. Now, in what consists 
that power ? That depends on what sort of act it is that I 
am to put forth. Suppose it be a physical act. My power 
to do what I wish, in that case, cooisists in my having certain 
physical organs capable of doing the given thing, and under 
the command of my will. Suppose it be an intellectual act. 
My power, in that case, of doing what I like, depends on my 
having such mental faculties as are requisite for the per- 
formance of the given act, and these under control. So 
long, then, as I have the faculties, physical or mental, that 
are requisite to the performance of a given act, and those 
faculties are under the control of my will, so that I can exert 
them if I please, and when I please, so long my power of do- 
ing what I like is unimpaired, and complete, as, e. g., the 
power of walking, or adding a column of accounts. 



552 CERTAIN QUESTIONS 

But suppose the Disposition wanting, — Suppose, now, 
the disposition to be wanting ; does the power also disap- 
pear, or does it remain ? I liave the same faculties as be- 
fore, and they are as fully under the control of the will as 
ever, and that constitutes all the power I ever had. I have 
tlie i:>ower, then, of doing what I have no inclination to do. 
Whatever I can do if I like, that also I can do, even if I do 
not like. In itself considered, the power to do a thing may 
be quite comjilete, and independent of the inclination or 
disposition to do or not to do. 

Will it be put in Requisition ? — But will this power be 
ever exercised ? Certainly not, so long as the disinclination 
continues. In order to the doing of any thing, there must 
not only be poiver to do it, but disposition. If the latter be 
wanting, the former, though it may exist, will never be put 
forth. 

Our Actions not consequently inevitable. — Have I, then, 
no power, that is really available, to do what I do not hap- 
pen to be, at this moment, inclined to do ? Am I shut up 
to the actual inclinations and choices of any given hour or 
moment? Am I under the stern rule of inevitable neces- 
sity and fate to do as I do, to choose as I choose, to be in- 
clined as I am inclined? By no means. My inclinations 
are not fixed quantities. They may change. They de- 
pend, in part, on the intellectual conceptions : these may 
vary; in part on the state of the heart : divine grace may 
change the heart. 

Actual Choices not necessary ones.— The actual choice 
of any given moment is by no means a necessary one. An- 
other might have been in its stead. A different inclination 
is certainly possible and conceivable, and a different inclina- 
tion would have led to a different choice. If, instead of 
looking at the advantage or agreeableness of a proposed 
course, and being influenced by that consideration, I had 
looked at the right, the obligation in the case, my ciioice 
would have been a different one, for I should have been in- 



CONNECTED WITH THE PEECEDIKG. 553 

fluenced by a different motive. Two different objects were 
presented to my mind, a and l. As it is, I choose a, but 
might have chosen b, and should, had I been so inclined. 
Why did I choose a9 Because, as the matter then pre- 
sented itself to my mind, I was so inclined. But I might 
have taken a diJEerent view of the whole thing, and then 
my inclination and my choice would have beeli different. 
It was in my power to have thought, to have felt, to have 
acted differently. What is more, I not only might, but, 
perhaps, ought to have felt and acted differently. I am 
responsible for having such an inclination as leads to a 
wrong choice ; responsible for my opinions and views which 
influence my feelings; responsible for my disposition in so 
far as it is the result of causes within my own control. 

Different Uses of the Term Power. — It ought to be 
clearly defined in all such discussions tvhat we mean by the 
principal terms employed. In the present instance what 
we mean by the words ^o?6'er, aUlity, can, etc., ought to be 
distinctly stated. Now, there are two senses in which these 
words are used, and the question before us turns, in part, 
on this difference. 

1. We may use the word power, e. g., to denote all that 
is requisite or essential to the actual cloing of a thing, what- 
ever is so connected with the doing, that, if it be wanting, 
the thing will not be done. 

Or, 2. In a more limited sense, to denote merely all that 
is requisite to the doing the thing, provided we please or 
choose to do it, all that is requisite in order to our doing 
what we like or wish. 

The latter distinguishes between the ahility and the luill- 
ingness to do; the former includes them both in the idea of 
power. In order to the actual doing there must be both. 
But does the word power properly include both? In ordi- 
nary language, certainly, we distinguish the two. I can do a 
thing, and I wish to do it, are distinct propositions, and 
neither includes the other. It is only by a license of speech 
24 



554 CERTAIN QUESTIONS 

that we sometimes say I cannot, when we mean simply, I 
have no wish or disposition. If we make the distinction in 
question between power and disposition, then we can do 
what we liave no wish to do. If we do not make it, but in- 
clude in the term power the disposition to exert the power, 
then we cannot do what we have no disposition to do. 

§ III -INFLUENCE OF MOTIVES. 

I. Is THE Will always as the greatest apparent 
Good? 

The Answer depends on the Meaning of the Question. — 
If by this be meant simply whether the mind always wills 
as it is, on the whole, and under all the circumstances, dis- 
posed or inclined to will, I have already answered the ques- 
tion. If more than that be meant, if we mean to ask 
Avhether we always, in volition, act with reference to the 
one consideration of advantage or utility, the good that is 
to accrue, in some way, to ourselves or others from the 
given procedure — and this is what the question seems to 
imply — I deny that this is so. I have already shown, in 
presenting the psychological facts respecting the will, that 
our motives of action are from two grand and diverse 
sources : desire and duty — self-love, or, at most such love as 
involves mere natural emotion, and sense of obligation; 
that we do not always act in view merely of the agreeable, 
but also in view of the right, and that these two are not 
identical. Now the greatest apparent good is not always 
the right; nor even the appare7it right. We are conscious 
of the difference, and of acting, now from the one, now 
from the other, of these motives. But to say that the will 
is always according to the greatest apparent good, is to re- 
solve all volition into the pursuit of the agreeable, and all 
motives of action into self-love. It is to merge the feeling 
of obligation in the feeling of desire, and lose sight of it 
in itself a distinct motive of action. 



CONITECTED WITH THE PRECEDING. 555 

Defect in the Socratic Philosophy. — This was the capital 

defect in the ethical system of Socrates, who held that men 
always pursue what they think to be good, and, therefore, 
always do what they think is right, since the good and 
the right are identical ; sometimes, indeed, mistaking an 
apparent good -for a real one, but always doing as well as 
they know how; from which it is but a short step to the 
conclusion that sin is only so much ignorance, and virtue 
so much knowledge — a conclusion to which the modern 
advocates of the doctrines under discussion would by no 
means assent, but from which that shrewd thinker and most 
consistent logician saw no escape. 

11. Is THE Will determined by the strongestMotive? 

The Term " strongest" as thus employed. — Much depends 
on what we mean by " strongest " in this connection, and 
what by the word "determined?" If we mean, by the 
strongest motive, the one which in a given case prevails, that 
in view of which the mind decides and acts, then the question 
amounts merely to this, Does the prevalent motive actually 
'prevail ? To say that it does, is much the same as to say, 
that a straight stick is a straight stick. And what else can 
you mean by strongest motive ? What standard have you 
for measuring motives and gauging their strength, except 
simply to judge of them by the effects they produce ? Or, 
who ever supposed that, of two motives, it was not the 
stronger but the weaker one that in a given case prevailed? 

The Word " determined." — The question may be made, 
however, to turn upon the word determined. Is the will 
determined by that motive which prevails? Is it determined 
at all by any motive or by any thing? If by this word it 
be meant or implied that the motive, and not the mind 
itself, is the producing cause of the mind's own action, then 
I deny that the will %s, in any such sense, determined, whether 
by the strongest motive, or any other. The will is simply 
the mind or the soul willing ; its acts are determined by 



556 CERTAIN QUESTIONS 

itself, and itself only. If you mean simply that the motive 
influences the will, prevails with it, becomes the reason why 
the will decides as it does, this I have already shown to be 
true, and in this sense undoubtedly, the motive determines 
the volition, just as the fall of an apple from a tree is, in the 
first instance, produced or caused by the law of gravitation ; 
but the particular direction which it takes in falling, depends 
on, and is determined by, adventitious circumstances as, 
e.g., the obstacles it meets in its descent. Those obstacles, 
in one sense, determine the motion ; they are the reason 
and explanation of the fact that it falls just as it does, and 
not otherwise ; but they are not the producing cause of the 
motion itself. 

III. Are Motives the Cause, and Volitions the 
Effect ? 

Incorrect Use of the Term Cause. — It is common, with a 
certain class of writers, to speak of motive as the cause of 
action or volition. This is, if at all correct and allowable, 
certainly not a fortunate use of terms. The agent is prop- 
erly the cause of any act, and in volition the soul itself is 
the agent. It is the mind itself, which is, strictly, the effi- 
cient cause of its own acts. The motive is the reason why 
I act, and not the producer or cause of my act. In common 
speech, this distinction is not always observed. We say, I 
do such a thing because of this or that, meaning for such 
and such reasons. In philosophical discussion it is necessary 
to be more exact. 

Liable to be misunderstood. —The use of the word, as 
now referred to, is particularly to be avoided as liable to 
mislead the incautious reader or hearer. It suggests the idea 
of physical necessity, of irresistibility. Given, the law of 
gravitation, e.g., and a body unsupi)orted must fall — no 
choice, no volition ; whereas, the action of the mind in voli- 
tion is, by its essential nature, voluntary, directly opposed to 
the idea of compulsion. Those who use the word in this 



CONNECTED WITH THE PRECEDING. 557 

manner are generally careful to disclaim, it is true, any such 
sense; but such are our associations with the word cause, as 
ordinarily employed, that it is difficult to avoid sliding, un- 
awares, into the old and familiar idea of some soi^t of abso- 
lute physical necessity. It were better to say, therefore, that 
motives are the reasons why we act thus and thus. To go 
further than this, to call the motive the cause of the volition, 
is neither a correct nor a fortunate use of terms, since the 
idea is thereby conveyed, guard against it as you will, that, 
in some way, the influence was irresistible, the event un- 
avoidable. 

The Phrase "moral Necessity." — The same objections 
lie with still greater force against the phrase moral necessity 
as applied to this subject. Those who use it are careful, for 
the most part, to define their meaning, to explain that they 
do not mean necessity at all, but only the certainty of 
actions. The word itself, however, is constantly contra- 
dicting all such explanations, constantly suggesting another 
and much stronger meaning. That is necessary, properly 
speaking, which depends not on my will or pleasure, which 
cannot be avoided, but must be, and must be as it is. Now, 
to say of an act of the will, that it is necessary, in this sense, 
is little short of a contradiction in terms. The two ideas 
are utterly incongruous and incompatible. 

A volition may be certain to take place; it may be the 
motive that makes it certain, but if this is all we mean, it is 
better to say just this, and no more. If this is all we mean, 
then we do not mean that volitions are necessary in any 
proper sense of that term. There is no need to use the 
word necessity, and then explain that we do not mean neces- 
sity, but only certainty. It is precisely on this unfortunate 
use of terms that the strongest objections are founded, 
against the true doctrine of the connection of motive with 
volition. Even Mill, one of the ablest modern necessita- 
rians, objects to the use of this term, and urges its aban- 
donment. 



558 CERTAIN QUESTION'S 

The true Connection. — What, then, is the connection be- 
tween Motive and Volition? — I have all along admitted, 
that there is such a connection between volitions and mo- 
tives, that the former never occur without the latter, that 
they stand related as antecedent and consequent, and that 
motives, while not the producing cause of volitions, are still 
the reason ivliy the volitions are as they are, and not other- 
wise. They furnish the occasion of their existence, and the 
explanation of their character. So much as this, the psy- 
chology of the subject warrants — more than this it does not 
allow. More than this we seem to assert, however, when 
we insist on saying that motive is the cause, and volition the 
effect. We seem, however we may disclaim such intention, 
to make the mind a mere mechanical instrument, putting 
forth volitions only as it is impelled by motives, these, and 
not the mind, being the real producing cause, and the voli- 
tions following irresistibly, just as the knife or chisel is but 
the passive instrument in the hand of the architect, and not 
at all the producing cause of the effects which follow. 

Difference of the two Cases. — Now there is a vast differ- 
ence between these two cases. The impulse, communicated 
to the saw, produces the effect irresistibly; not so the mo- 
tive. The saw is a passive instrument; not so the mind. 
There is, in either case, a fixed connection between the an- 
tecedent and the consequent, but the nature of the connec- 
tion is widely different, and it is a difference of the greatest 
moment. It is precisely the difference indicated by the two 
words cause and reason — as applied to account for a given 
occurrence — the one applicable to material and mechanical 
powers and processes, the other to intelligent, rational, volun- 
tary agents. There, is a caz^se why the apple falls. It is 
gravitation. There is a reason Avhy mind acts and wills as 
it does. It is motive. 

But is the Mind the producing Cause of its own Volitions ? 
— This, the advocates of moral necessity deny. *" If we 
should thus cause a volition," says Dr. Edwards, "we should 



II 



COIS'NECTED WITH THE PRECEDING. 559 

doubtless cause it by a causal act. It is impossible that we 
cause any thing without a causal act. And as it is sup- 
posed that we cause it freely, the causal act must be a free 
act, i. e., an act of the will, or yolition. And as the suppo- 
sition is, that all our volitions are caused by ourselves, the 
causal act must be caused by another, and so on infinitely, 
which is both impossible and inconceivable." That is, if 
the mind causes its own volitions, it can do it only by first 
acting to cause them, and that causative act is, itself, a vo- 
lition, and requires another causative act to produce it, 
and so on ad infinitum. 

The Dictum Necessitatis proves too much. — This cele- 
brated argument has been called, not inappositely, the dic- 
tum necessitatis. It rests upon the assumption, that no cause 
can act, but by first acting to produce that act. Now this 
virtually shuts out all cause from the universe, or else in- 
volves us in the infinite series. Apply this reasoning to any 
cause whatever, and see if it be not so. Suppose, e. g.^ that 
motive, and not the mind itself, is the producing cause of 
volition. Then, according to the dictum, motive cannot 
act, but by first acting in order to act, and for that pre- 
vious causative act, there must have been an ulterior cause, 
and so on forever, in an endless succession of previous 
causative acts. 

The Dictum as applicable to Mind. — But it may be said 
this dictum applies only to mind, or voluntary action. How, 
then, is it known, that mind cannot act without first acting 
in order to act? Would not this virtually shut out and ex- 
tinguish all mental action ? The mind thinks ; must it first 
think, in order to think? It reasons, judges, conceives, im- 
agines ; must it first reason, judge, etc., in order to reason, 
and judge, and conceive, and imagine ? If not, then why 
may it not vnll without first luilling to will ? 

The Dictum as applicable to Deity. — If mind is not the 
cause of its own volitions, then how is it with the volitions 
of the infinite and eternal mind ? Are they caused or un- 



5G0 THE WILL VIEWED 

caused? If caused, thcu by what? If by himself, then there 
is again the infinitely recurriug series accordiug to the dic- 
tum. If by something else, still we do not escape the series, 
for each causative act must have its prior cause. Ai-e the 
volitions of Deity, then, nncaused? Then certainly there 
is no such tiling as cause in the universe. Motives, then, 
are no longer to be called causes. Deity is not, in fact, the 
cause of any thing, since not the cause of those volitions 
by which alone all things are produced. If he is not the 
cause of these, then not the cause of their consequences 
and effects. In either case, you shut out all cause from the 
universe, whether the dictum be applied to mind or to mo- 
tion, to man or to God ; or else you are, in either case, in- 
volved in the vortex of this terrible infinitive series. 

To give up the dictum, is to admit that mind may be the 
producing cause of its own volitions. 



CHAPTER V. 

THE DOCTRINE OF THE WILL VIEWED IN CONNEC- 
TION WITH CERTAIN TRUTHS OF RELIGION. 

The Relation of Psychology to Theology. — The very close 
connection between the philosophy of the will, and the 
science of theology, has already been remarked. We have 
discussed the questions which have come before us thus far, 
on purely psychological grounds, without reference to their 
theological bearing. It would be manifest injustice to the 
matter in hand, however, were we to overlook entirely the 
relation of our philosophy to those higher truths which 
pertain to the domain of theological science. 

The whole question respecting the freedom of the human 
will, especially, assumes a new importance, when viewed in 
connection with the truths of natural and revealed religion. 



Ii;r CON^I^ECTION with EELlGIOif. 561 

It ceases to be a speculative, and becomes an eminently 
practical question when thus viewed. 

There are two points which require special attention, as 
regards that connection; the one, God's power over man; 
the other, mari^s jpoiuer over himself, 

§ L-THE POWER WHICH GOD EXERTS OVER THE 
HUMAN MIND AND WILL. 

Dependence of Man. — It seems to be the teaching of rea- 
son, no less than of religion, that mau stands to the Crea- 
tor in the relation of absolute dependence. The one is the 
subject, the other the sovereign. The control of Deity 
extends, not merely to the elements and forces of nature, 
which are by no means the chief and most important j)art 
of his works, but over all intelligent,, rational beings. This 
is implied, not only in the fact that he is the Creator of 
all, but in the fact of moral government, and of a super- 
intending providence. Manifestly, there could be no such 
thing as moral government, and no control over the af- 
fairs of the world, if the conduct of men, the minds and 
hearts of intelligent beings, were not subject to that con- 
trol. This is not only the inference which reason draws 
from the acknowledged supremacy of the Creator, it is not 
only thus a tenet of natural religion, but it is also one of 
the plainest doctrines of revealed truth. In the most ex- 
plicit and direct terms, the Scriptures ascribe to God the 
supreme control of human conduct, of the human mind 
and heart. This power over the thoughts and purposes of 
intelligent beings is the very highest power. 

This Control unlimited. — This control, moreover, in 
order to be complete and effective, must reach beyond 
the present and passing moment, must take in the future, 
must sweep through the whole range of coming duration, 
and comprehend whatever is to be. Nothing must take 
place without his foreknowledge and permission. The 
24- 



563 THE WILL VIEWED 

minutest events, the falling of a sparrow, the number of 
the forest leaves, and of the hairs of our head, must be no 
exception to this general law. 

Implies a Plan, and that Plan embraces human Conduct. 
— If we suppose the supreme Being to be, not only a Crea- 
tor and Euler, but a wise and intelligent one, then we 
must suppose him to have some J5Z«?^ of operations. The 
very idea of providence, indeed, implies this. And this 
plan must be supposed to extend to, and include, future 
events, all events, minute events ; for the little and the 
great are linked together, the future and the present are 
linked together, and the plan and government that has to 
do with one, must have to do with all, and with human 
conduct among the rest. This, again, is not more clearly 
the doctrine of reason than of revelation. 

The Difficulty stated. — Whatever freedom man has, then, 
it must be such a freedom as is consistent with God's com- 
plete control and government of him. Neither his present 
nor his future conduct, neither his thoughts, his feelings, 
nor his purposes, must be beyond the reach of the divine 
purpose and control. But how are these things to be re- 
conciled — man's entire freedom, God's entire control and 
government of him ? 

Different Positions assumed. — Both are facts, and, there- 
fore, true. Either, by itself, can be well enough conceived 
and comprehended, but, taken together, they appear incon- 
sistent. Many do not hesitate to pronounce them so. 
Some, who accept them both as true, regard them as still 
inexplicable and incomprehensible. Others receive one 
and reject the other, or, at least, assume such a position as 
amounts to a virtual rejection of one of these truths. Thus 
the fatalist secures the supreme government of God, only 
at the expense of human freedom, and thus weakens, if not 
destroys, the foundation of human accountability. Others 
again, in their horror of fatalism, preserve the freedom and 
accountability of man, at tiie expense of the divine govern- 



IN COKNECTION WITH RELIGION". 563 

ment and purposes, thus virtually placing man beyond the 
power and control of Deity. 

Application of the preceding Psychology to this Ques- 
tion. — How, then, are these two great facts to be recon- 
ciled ? If we mistake not, a true psychology, a correct 
view of the nature of the will, prepares the way for this. 
What have we found to be the process of the mind in voli- 
tion? The several steps of the process are found to be 
these : In the first place, some object to be accomplished is 
presented, as such, to the understanding. This object, 
thus presented, appealing to the desires or to the sense of 
duty, influences or inclines the mind. This, again, leads 
to choice, choice to volition, volition to action. 

Freedom lies where. — ISTow in this whole process, ivhere 
does the element of freedom lie? Not in the final execu- 
tive act — the doing as we will to do — for that is merely a 
bodily function, a physical and not a mental power ; nor 
yet in the control of the motives which influence or incline 
us ; for these are, for the most part, out of our power. 
Evidently freedom, so far as it pertains to the human will, 
lies in the power of forming and putting forth such voli- 
tions as we please, in other words, of choosing as we like, 
and willing as we choose, so that whatever our inclinations 
may be, we shall be at liberty to choose and to will accord- 
ingly. This is the highest practical freedom of which it 
is possible to conceive, and it is all the freedom which per- 
tains to the human will. 

How this may consist with the divine Control. — Let us 
see, now, if this be not a liberty perfectly compatible with 
the divine government and control over us. These volitions 
and choices of ours are by no means arbitrary or casual ; 
there is a reason for them ; a reason why we choose as we 
do. We choose thus and thus, because we are, on the whole, 
so disposed or inclined ; and this inclination or disposition 
depends on a great variety of circumstances, on the nature 
and strength of the motive presented, our physical and 



664 THE WILL VIEWED 

mental constitution and habits, our power of self-control, 
the strength of our desires, as compared with our sense of 
duty, the presence or absence of the exciting object ; in fine, 
on a great variety of predisposing causes and circumstances, 
all of which arc to be taken into the account, when the ques- 
tion is, why do we choose thus, and not otherwise ? Now 
these circumstances which go to determine our inclinations, 
and so our choices and volitions, are, in a great measure, 
beyond our direct control. Our physical and mental con- 
stitution, our external condition, our state of mind, and cir- 
cumstances at any given moment, whatever in the shape of 
motive or inducement may be present with moving power 
to the mind, inclining us this way or that, all this lies 
much more under divine control than under our own. 

The Point of Connection. — Here, then, to speak rever- 
ently, lies the avenue of approach, through which Deity 
may come in and take possession of the human mind, and 
influence and shape its action, without infringing, in the 
least, on its perfect freedom. He has only to present such 
motives as shall seem to the mind weighty and sufficient, 
has only to touch the main-spring of human inclination, 
l^ing back of actual choice, has only to secure within us a 
disposition or liking to any given course, and our choice 
follows with certainty, and our volition, and our action ; 
and that action and volition are free in the highest sense, 
because our choice was free. We acted just as we pleased, 
just as we were inclined. 

The influence of Man over his fellow Men an Illustration 
of the same Principle. — Now this is just what we, in a 
limited way, and to a small extent, are constantly doing 
with respect to our fellow-men. We present motives, in- 
ducements, to a given course, we work ui)on their inclina- 
tions, we appeal to their sensibilities, their natural desires, 
their sense of duty, and in proportion as we gain access to 
their hearts, we are successful in sha[)ing and controUing 
their conduct. The great and difticult art of goveniing 



1 



IK COKKECTIOK WITH RELIGION. 565 

men lies in this. We have only to suppose a like power, 
but complete and perfect, to be exercised by the supreme 
disposer and controller of events, so shaping and ordering 
circumstances as to determine the inclinations of men, gain- 
ing access, not in an uncertain and indirect manner, but by 
immediate approach to the human heart, all whose springs 
lie under his control, so that he can touch and command 
them as he will ; we have only to conceive this, and we 
have, as it seems to me, a full and sufficient explanation of 
the fact that man acts freely, and just as he is inclined, 
while yet he is perfectly under the divine control. 

Power which the Scriptures ascribe to God. — And this, if 
I mistake not, is precisely the sort of control and power 
over man which the Scriptures always ascribe to God, viz., 
power over the inclinations, affections, dispositions, from 
which proceed all our voluntary actions. In his hand are 
the hearts of men, and lie can turn them as the rivers of 
water are turned. 

The Theory does not suppose a divine Influence to Evil. 
— It is not necessary to suppose that God ever influences 
men to evil; the supposition is inconsistent with the divine 
character, with all we know and conceive of Deity. Nor^s 
any such influence over man necessary in order to the ac- 
complishment of evil, but, on the contrary, much is needed 
to restrain and prevent him from sin. Sufficient already 
are the motives and influences that incline him to go 
astray ; feeble and inefficient, the inducements to a better 
life. Could we suppose, however, any influence of this 
sort to be exerted over man, inclining him to evil, we can 
still see how such influence might be perfectly consistent 
with his entire freedom. It is not the integrity of human 
freedom, but the integrity of the divine character, that for- 
bids such a supposition. 

Does not interfere with Responsibility. — Does such a 
power over human conduct, as that now attributed to the 
supreme Being, interfere with human responsihiUty f Not 



666 THE WILL VIEWED 

in the least. Responsibility rests with him who acts freely, 
and as he pleases, doing that which is right or wrong, of his 
own accord, knowing what he does, and because he has a 
mind to do it. And it is thus man acts, under whatever 
degree of divine influence we may suppose him placed. 

§ II.-MAN'S POWER OVER HIMSELF. 

Unjust to require what it is impossible to perform. — Have 
I power, in all cases, to do what the divine will requires ; 
power to do right? It would seem to be the verdict of 
reason, and the common sense of mankind, that to require 
of any man what is literally and absolutely beyond his 
power, is unjust, and that such a requirement, if it were 
made, would impose no obligation, since obedience would 
be impossible. We cannot suppose God to be guilty of such 
manifest injustice. His commands are right. They carry 
with them the judgment and reason of men. Conscience 
approves them. Obligation attends them. They must 
therefore, be such commands as it is possible for us to obey. 
It would be manifest injustice and wrong to require of me 
what it is actually and absolutely out of my power to do. 

Supposed Disinclination. — But suppose I have really no 
inclination, no disposition, to do right. My affections and 
desires are all wrong, inclining me to evil, and my sense of 
duty or moral obligation is not strong enough to prevail 
against these natural desires and evil inclinations ; suppose 
this, which, alas! is too often true, and what then becomes 
of my poiver to do right ? Does it any longer exist? Have 
I any power to change those affections and inclinations ; or, 
they remaining as they arc, have I any power to go contrary 
to them? A question tliis, at once profoukdly philosophi- 
cal, and intensely piactical. 

Position of the Fatalist. — The fatalist has no hesitation 
in replying no, to these (juostions. Man has no power to 
change the current of his own inclinations, nor yet to go 



IN COKNECTIOK WITH RELIGION. 567 

against that current. He is wholly under the influence of 
motives ; they turn him this way and that. He has power 
to do as he wills, but no power over the volitions themselves. 
He has power to do only what he has a mind to do. He has 
no mind, no inclination to do right, therefore, no power to 
do so. 

This Position at Variance with a true Psychology. — A 
correct psychology, as we have already seen, gives a different 
answer. It is not true, as a matter of fact in the philosophy 
of the human mind, that man has no poiuer to do what he 
has no disposition to do ; nor is it true that his inclinations 
and affections are wholly out of his power and control. In 
both respects, fatahsm is at war, not more with the common 
sense of mankind, than with a sound and true philosophy. 

Confounds Power with Inclination. — To say that man 
has no poiuer to do what he is not inclined to do, is to con- 
found power with inclination. They are distinct things. 
The one may exist without the other. I have power to do 
what I have no disposition to do ; on the other hand, I may 
have the disposition to do what is not in my power. I have 
power to set fire to my own house, or to my neighbor's, or 
to cut off my right hand ; power, but no disposition. Pre- 
sent a motive sufficiently weighty to change my mind, and 
incline me to the act, and you create, in that way, a new 
disposition, but no new power. This point has been fully 
discussed in the previous chapter, and I need not here 
repeat the argument. It was"^ shown that in order to the 
actual doing of a thing, two things are requisite, namely, 
the poiuer to do, and the inclination to exert that power ; 
and that neither involves the other. Where the power 
alone exists, the thing can he done, but will not he ; where 
both exist, it both can and will be done. It is not true, 
then, in any proper use of terms, that want of inclination 
is want of power. 

Our Inclinations not wholly beyond our Control. — Equally 
incorrect is the position that our inclinations and affections 



568 TUE WILL VIEWED, ETC. 

are wholly out of our own control. Within certain limits 
it is in our power to change them. Inclination is not a 
fixed quantity. It may change. It ought to change. In 
many respects it is constantly changing. We take different 
views of things, and so our feelings and inclinations change. 
Circumstances change ; the course of events changes; and 
our disposition is modified accordingly. So that while the 
affections and inclinations are certainly not under the direct 
and immediate control of the will, it is still, in a great meas- 
ure, in our power to modify and control them. While they 
remain as they are, it is quite certain that we shall do as we 
do ; but it is not necessary that they should, nor certain that 
they ^oill^ remain as they are. 

The true Answer. — To the question, then, can the man 
whose inclinations are to evil, whose heart is wrong, do 
right ? a true psychology answers yes. He can do what ho 
is not inclined to do ; nor is that evil inclination itself a 
fixed quantity; he can be, he may be, otherwise inclined. 

Something else needed beside Power. — It must be ad- 
mitted, however, that so long as the heart is wrong, so 
long as the evil disposition continues, so long the man will 
continue to do evil, notwithstanding all his poiver to the 
contrary. Left to himself, there is very little probability of 
his effecting any material change in himself for the better. 
In order to this, there is needed an influence from without, 
and from above; an influence that shall incline him to obe- 
dience, that shall make him ivilling to obey. 

The Gospel meets this Necessity. — This is precisely the 
want of his nature which divine grace meets. It creates 
within him a clea7i heart, and renews within him a right 
spirit. This is the sublime mystery of regeneration. The 
soul that is thus born of God is made willing to do right. 
The inclinations are no longer to evil, but to good, and the 
man still doing that which he pleases, is pleased to do the 
will of God. The change is in the disposition ; it is a change 
of the affections, of the heart ; thus the Scriptures always 



POWEE OF WILL. 569 

represent it. This was all that was wanted to secure obe- 
dience, and this divine grace supplies. 

It is not our province to discuss theological questions, as 
such. It has been our aim, simply, to show the relation of 
a true psychology to the system of truth revealed in the 
Scriptures. The perfect coincidence of the two is an argu- 
ment in favor of each. 



CHAPTEH VL 

POWER OF WILL 



Differences in this respect. — There are great differences 
among men, as regards the strength and energy of this, as 
compared with the other departments of mental activity. 
The difference is, perhaps, as great in this respect, as in re- 
gard to the other mental faculties. Not all are gifted Avith 
equal power of imagination, not all with equal strength of 
memory, or of the reasoning faculty; not all with equal 
strength of the executive power of the mind. Some persons 
exhibit a weakness of will, a want of decision and firmness, 
an irresolution of character and purpose. They waver and 
hesitate in cases of doubt and emergency, requiring decision 
and energy. They are governed by no fixed purpose. The 
course which they adopt to-day, they abandon to-morrow 
for the opposite. They are controlled by circumstances. 
Opposition turns them from their course, difficulties dis- 
courage them. They are easily persuaded, easily led ; ill 
fitted to be themselves leaders of men. 

Others, again, are firm and inflexible as a rock. They 
choose their course, and pursue it, regardless of difficulties 
and consequences. Difficulties only arouse them to new 
effort. Opposition only strengthens their decision and pur- 
pose. They are hard to be persuaded, when once their 



570 POWER OF WILL. 

minds are made up, and harder still to be driven. They 
take their stand, nothing daunted by opposing numbers, 
and, with Fitz-James, when suddenly confronted and sur- 
rounded by the hosts of Roderic Dhu, exclaim, 

" Come one, come all, this rock shall lly 
From its firm base, as soon as V 

Instances of Firmness. — Napoleon, fiery and impetuous 
as he was, possessed this energy and strength of will. 
Obstacles, difficulties, insurmountable to other men, estab- 
lished usages, institutions, armies, thrones, all were swept 
away before the irresistible energy of that mighty will, and 
that determined purpose, as the wave, driven before the 
storm, clears itself a path among the pebbles and shells that 
lie strewn upon the shore. In the character of his brother 
Joseph, King of Spain, we have an example of tlie opposite. 
Mild, cultivated, refined, amiable, of elegant tastes, a man 
of letters, loving retirement and leisure, he was lacking in 
that energy and decision of character which fit men for 
command in camps and courts. We have in the firm and 
terrible energy of Cromwell, as contrasted with the mild- 
ness and inefficiency of his son and successor Richard, the 
same diflference illustrated. The Puritan leaders of the 
English Revolution were men of stern and determined 
energy of character. Among the Romans, Caesar presents 
a notable example of that strength of will which fits men 
for great enterprises; while the great Roman orator, with 
all his acquisitions of varied learning, and all his philosophy, 
and all his eloquence, was deficient in firmness of purpose. 

Often exhibited in military Leaders. — In general it may 
be remarked that great military commanders have usually 
been distinguished for this trait of character. It Avas by 
virtue of their energy, and decision, and firmness of pur- 
l)ose, that they accomi)lished what they did, succeeding 
where other men would have failed. Thus it was with Han- 
nibal, with Frederic the Great, with Wellington, with our 



POWEE OF WILL. 571 

own Washington. They were, by nature, endowed with 
those qualities which fitted them for their important and 
diflScult stations ; while, at the same time, the work to which 
they were called, and the circumstances in which they were 
placed, tended greatly to develop and strengthen those 
peculiar traits and qualities, and this among the rest. 

The same Trait exhibited in other Stations of Life. — 
Strength of will shows itself, however, in other relations 
and stations of life, as well as in the military commander. 
The leader of a great political party, as, for example, of the 
Administration, or of the Opposition, in the English Par- 
liament, has abundant occasion for firmness and strength of 
purpose. It was not less strength of will, than of moral 
principle, in Socrates, that led him resolutely to withstand 
the popular clamor, and the opinions of his associate judges, 
and refuse to sentence the unsuccessful military command- 
ers, on the day when the decision lay in his hands; the same 
trait showed itself in that retreat after the battle of Delium, 
so graphically described by Plato, when he walked alone 
and slowly from the field, where all was confusion and flight, 
with such coolness and such an air of calm self-reliance, 
that no enemy ventured to approach him ; it was shown 
not less in his determined refusal to escape from prison, and 
the unjust sentence of death, notwithstanding all the en- 
treaties and remonstrances of friends. 

Strength of Will in the Orator. — The truly great orator, 
rising to repel the assaults of his antagonist, or to allay the 
prejudices and take command of the passions and opinions 
of a popular assembly, calm and collected, and conscious of 
his strength, master of his own emotions, and of all his 
powers, presents an illustration of the same principle. It 
was seen in Webster, when he rose in the Senate to reply 
to Hayne. The very aspect of the man conveyed to all be- 
holders the idea of power — a strength, not merely of 
gigantic intellect, but of resolute will determined to con- 
quer. 



572 POWER OF WILL. 

Strength of Will as shown in the Endurance of Suffer- 
ing. — The same principle is sometimes manifested in a dif- 
ferent manner, and in different circumstances. If it leads 
to heroic actions it leads also to heroic endurance and suffer- 
ing. It was the firm and stubborn will of Regulus, that sent 
him back to Carthage, to endure all that the disappointed 
malice of his foes could invent. It was the firm will of 
Jerome of Prague, that kept him from recantation in the 
face of death; the firm Avill of Cranmer, that thrust his right 
hand into the flames, and kept it there till it was quite con- 
sumed. A like firmness of puq)ose has been exhibited in 
thousands of instances, both in the earlier and later annals 
of Christian martyrdom. Rather than renounce a principle, 
or abandon the deeply-cherished convictions of the soul, na- 
tures, the most frail and feeble, have calmly met and endured 
the greatest sufferings, with a firmness, and courage, and 
power of endurance, that nothing could shake or overcome. 

How to be attained. — To multiply instances is needless. 
But how shall this strength of will, so desirable, so essential 
to true greatness and nobleness of character, be attained ? 

In part it is the gift of nature, doubtless — the result of 
that physical and mental constitution with which some are 
more fortunately endowed; in part it is an acquisition to be 
made, as any other mental or physical acquisition, by due 
care and training. It will be of service, especially, in any 
endeavor of this sort, to accustom ourselves to decide with 
promptness, and act with energy in the many smaller and 
less important affairs of life, and to carry out a purpose, 
once deliberately formed, with persistence, even in trivial 
matters. The habit thus formed, we may be able afterward, 
and gradually, to carry into higher departments of action, 
and into circumstances of greater embarrassment and dif- 
ficulty. On the other hand, this must not be carried to the 
extreme of obstinacT/, which is the refusal to correct a mis- 
take, or acknowledge an error, or listen to the wiser and 
better counsels of others. 



CHAPTER VIL 

HISTORICAL SKETCH— OUTLINE OF THE CONTRO- 
VERSY RESPECTING FREEDOM OF THE WILL 

Question early Discussed. — The question respecting hu- 
man freedom, was very early a topic of inquiry and discus- 
sion. It enters prominently into the philosophy of all 
nations, so far as we know, among whom either philosophy 
or theology have found a place. It is by no means confined 
to Christian, or even to cultivated nations. It holds a prom- 
inent place in the theological systems and disputes of India 
and the East, at the present day. The missionary of the 
Christian faith meets with it, to his surprise, perhaps, in the 
remotest regions, and among tribes little cultivated. It is a 
question, at once so profound, and yet of such personal and 
practical moment, that it can hardly have escaped the atten- 
tion of any thoughtful and reflecting mind, in any country, 
or in any age of the world. 

The Greek Philosophy. — Among the Greeks, conflicting 
opinions respecting this matter prevailed in the different 
schools. The Epicureans, although asserting human liberty 
in opposition to the doctrine of universal and inexorable 
fate, were, nevertheless, necessitarians, if we may judge 
from the writings of Lucretius, whose idea of liberty, as Mr. 
Stewart has well shown, is compatible with the most perfect 
necessity, and renders man "as completely a piece of passive 
mechanism as he was supposed to be by Collins and Hobbes." 
This liberty is, itself, the necessary effect of some cause, and 
the reason assigned for this view is precisely that given by 
modern advocates of necessity, namely, that to supjpose 
otherwise, is to suppose an effect luithout a cause. 

On the other hand, the Stoics, while maintaining the doc- 



574 HISTORICAL SKETCH. 

trine oifate, held, nevertheless, to the utmost liberty of the 
will. With the consistency of these views, we are not now 
concerned. Epictetus is referred to by Mr. Stewart, as an 
example of this not unusual combination of fatalism and 
fi'ee-will. 

The Jewish Sects. —Very similar was the relation of the 
two rival sects among the Jews, the Sadducees and the 
Pharisees, the former holding the doctrine of human free- 
dom, the latter of such a degree, at least, of fatality, as is 
inconsistent with true liberty. 

The Arabian Schools. — Among no people, perhaps, has 
this question been more eagerly and widely discussed, than 
by the Arabians, whose philosophy seems to have grown out 
of their theology. When that remarkable book, the Koran, 
first aroused the impulsive mind of the Arab from his idle 
dreams, and startled him into consciousness of higher truth, 
the very first topic of inquiry and speculation about which 
his philosophic thought employed itself, seems to have been 
this long-standing question of human ability and the free- 
dom of the will. The Koran taught the doctrine of necessity 
and fate. A sect soon arose, called Eadrites, from the word 
kadr, power, freedom, holding the opi30site doctrine, that 
man's actions, good and bad, are under the conti'ol of liis 
own will. From this was gradually formed a large body of 
dissenters, as they styled themselves, and in maintaining 
these views on the one side, and opposing tliem on the other, 
the controversy became more and more one of philosophy, 
and for some three centuries, with varied learning and skill, 
Arabian scholars and philosophers disputed, warmly, this 
most difficult and abstruse of metaphysical questions. Fa- 
talism seems ultimately to have prevailed, as, indeed, a doc- 
trine so congenial to error, and to every false system of 
religious belief, would be quite likely to do, where any such 
system is established. 

The Scholastics and the Heformers. — Among tlie scho- 
lastic divines of the middle ages, some held to the liberty of 



ii 



HISTORICAL SKETCH. 575 

the will, while many allowed only what they called the 
liberty of spontaneity, i.e., power to do as we will, in oppo- 
sition to liberty of indifference, or power over the deter- 
minations of the Yv^ill itself. 

Among the moderns, the Reformers differed among them- 
selves on the matter of liberty, the Lutherans, with Melanc- 
thon, opposing the scheme of necessity ; Calvin and Bucer 
maintaining it, as the necessary consequence of their views 
of divine predestination. 

Distinguished modern Advocates of Necessity. — Among 
the philosophical writers of the last and the present century, 
a very strong array of eminent names is on the side of ne- 
cessity. Hobbes, Locke — who is claimed, however, by each 
side — Leibnitz, Collins, Edwards, Priestley, Belsham, Lord 
Karnes, Hartley, Mill, advocate openly the doctrine of ne- 
cessity. 

Doctrine of Hobbes. — The views of Hohhes seem to have 
given shape to the opinions of subsequent advocates of this 
theory. The only liberty which he allows, is that of doing 
what one wills to do, or what the scholastics called the 
liberty of spontaneity. Water is free, and at liberty, when 
nothing prevents it from flowing down the stream. Liberty 
he defines, accordingly, to \)Q ^' the absence of all impedi- 
ments to action that are not contained in the nature and 
intrinsical quality of the agent.'' A man whose hands are 
tied, is not at liberty to go ; the impediment is not in him, 
but in his bands ; while he who is sick or lame, is at liberty, 
because the obstacle is in himself. A free agent is one who 
can do as he wills. 

This is essentially the view of freedom adopted by the 
later advocates of necessity, and almost in the same terms ; 
it is the view of Collins, Priestley and Edwards. 

Doctrine of Locke. — It is, also, Locke's idea of freedom. 
Liberty, he says, is the power of any agent '^^ to do or for- 
bear any particular action, according to the determination 
or thought of the mind, whereby either of them is preferred 



576 HISTORICAL SKETCH. 

to the other." Tliis extends only to the carrying out our 
volitions when formed, and not to the matter of willing or 
preferring; power over the determinations of the will, itself, 
is not included in this definition. 

Locke Inconsistent.*— In this, Locke was inconsistent with 
himself, since, in his chapter on power, he seems to be main- 
taining the doctrine of human freedom. The liberty here 
intended, it has been justly remarked by Bledsoe, is not 
freedom of the will, or of the mind in willing, but only of 
the body; it refers to the motion of the body, not to the 
action of the mind. 

Locke expressly says, "there may be volition where 
there is no liberty;" and giv.es, in illustration, the case 
of a man falling through a breaking bridge, who has 
volition or preference not to fall, but no liberty, since 
he cannot help falling. In this, again, Locke is incon- 
sistent, since, elsewhere, he distinguishes between volition 
and desire or preference, while here he does not distin- 
guish them. 

There can be no doubt that Locke supposed himself an 
advocate of human freedom, for such is the spirit of his 
whole treatise, especially of his twenty-first chapter; at the 
same time, it must be confessed, his definitions are incom- 
plete, and his language inconsistent and vacillating, so that 
there is some reason to class him, as Priestley does, with 
those ^vho really adopt the scheme of necessity without 
knowing or intending it. 

View of Leibnitz. — Leibnitz was led to adopt the doc- 
trine of necessity from his general theory of the snfficient 
reason, that is, that nothing occurs without a reason why it 
should be so, and not otherwise. This principle he carries 
so far as to deny the power of Deity to create two things 
perfectly alike, and the power of citiier God or man to 
choose one of two things that are perfectly alike. This prin- 
ciple presents the mind as alwaj^s determined by the greatest 
apparent good, and establishes, as its author sui)po.-'ed, by 



HISTORICAL SKETCH. 577 

the certainty of demonstration, the absolute impossibility 
of free agency. 

View of Collins. — Collins maintains the necessity of all 
human actions, from experience, from the impossibility of 
liberty, from the divine foreknowledge, from the nature of 
rewards and pjinishments, and the nature of morality. He 
takes pains to reconcile this doctrine with man's account- 
ability and moral agency, and is careful to define his terms 
with great exactness. Thus the terms liberty and necessity 
are defined as follows : '' First, though I deny liherty in a 
certain meaning of the word, yet I contend for liherty as it 
signifies a power in man to do as he icills or pleases. Sec- 
ondly, when I affirm necessity, I contend only for moral 
necessity, meaning thereby that man, who is an intelligent 
and sensible being, is determined by his reason and his 
senses ; and I deny man to be subject to such necessity as 
is in clocks and watches, and such other beings, which, for 
want of sensation and intelligence, are subject to an abso- 
lute, physical, or mechanical necessity. 

Coincidence of Collins and Edwards. — The coincidence 
of these views and definitions, and, indeed, of the plan of 
argument, with the definitions and the arguments of Ed- 
wards, is remarkable. No two writers, probably, were ever 
further removed from each other in their general spirit and 
character, and in their system of religious belief ; yet as re- 
gards this doctrine, the definitions and views of one were 
those of the other, and as Mr. Stewart has justly remarked, 
the coincidence is so perfect, that the outline given by the 
former, of the plan of his work, might have served with 
equal propriety as a preface to the latter. 

Views of Edwards. — No writer has more ably discussed 
this question than the elder Edwards. He is universally 
conceded to be one of the ablest metaphysicians, as well as 
theologians, of modern times. His work on the Freedom of 
the Will is a masterpiece of reasoning. At the same time, 
as to the character and tendency of the system therein niaiu- 
25 



578 HISTORICAL SKETCH. 

tained, the greatest difference of .opinion exists. By some 
he is regarded as a fatalist, by others he is chiimed as an 
advocate of luiman freedom. There is some ground for 
this difference of opinion. No writer, from Plato down- 
ward, was ever perfectly se4f-consistent ; it would be strange 
if Edwards were so. That the general scheme of necessity, 
maintained by Edwards, tends, in some respects, to fatal- 
ism — that the ablest champions of fatalism, and even writers 
of atheistic, and immoral views, have held essentially the 
same doctrine, and maintained it by the same arguments — 
must be conceded; that such was not the design and spirit 
of his work, that such was not his own intention, is per- 
fectly evident. 

Main Positions of Edwards. — The definitions of Ed- 
wards, as we have already seen, are the same with those of 
Collins and Hobbes. He understands by liberty merely a 
'power to do as one wills. The mind is always determined 
by the greatest apparent good. The motive determines the 
act, causes it. The mind acts, wills, chooses, etc., but the 
motive is the cause of its action. That the mind should be 
the cause of its own volitions, implies, he maintains, an act 
of will preceding the volition, that is a volition prior to vo- 
lition, and so on forever in an infinite scries. This argu- 
ment, the famous dictum necessitatis, has been considered 
in a previous chapter. Now, to say that motive is the pro- 
ducing cause, and volition the effect, especially if the con- 
nection of the two is of the same iiature as that between 
physical causes and effects, as Edwards affirms, is certainly 
to say that whicli looks very strongly toward fatalism. 

Necessity, what. — Edwards maintains the doctrine of 
necessity. But what did he mean by moral necessity? 
The phrase is unfortunate, for reasons already suggested — 
it does convey tlie idea of irresistibility, of something 
which must and will he — in spite of all contrary will and en- 
deavor. This, liowever, he is careful to disclaim. lie means 
by moral and })hilosophical necessity simple ciOirrviXTV, 



HISTORICAL SKETCH. 579 

"nothing different from certainty." "No opposition or 
contrary will and endeavor," lie says, "is supposable in tlie 
case of moral necessity, which is a certainty of the inclina- 
tion and will itself." Now we must allow him to put his 
own meaning upon the terms he uses ; and to say that 
nnder given circumstances, there being given such and such 
motives, inclinatious, and preferences, such and such voli- 
tions will certainly follow, is not to say that the will is not 
free in its action — is not to shut us up to absolute fate — 
is not, in fact, to say any thing more than is strictly and 
I)sychologically true. In defending himself from this very 
charge, he uses the following explicit language in a letter to 
a minister of the Church of Scotland ; " Ok the contrary, 
I have largely declared that the connection between anteced- 
ent things and consequent ones, luhich takes place with re- 
gard to the acts of meii's tvills, which is called moral neces- 
sity, is called hy the name of necessity improperly ; and 
that such a necessity as attends the acts of men's wills is 
more properly called certainty than necessity; it being no 
other than the certain connection between the subject and 
predicate of the proposition which affirms their existence." 
** Nothing that T maintain supposes that men are at all 
hindered by any fatal necessity, from doing, and even will- 
ing and choosing as they please, with full freedom ; free 
with the highest degree of liberty that ever was thought 
of, or that could possibly enter into the heart of man to 
conceive." This is explicit, and ought to satisfy us as to 
what Edwards himself thought of his own work, and meant 
by it. Still a man does not always understand himself, is 
not always the best judge of his own arguments, is not al- 
ways consistent with himself, does not always express his 
own real opinions, nor do himself justice, in every part 
of his reasonings. This is certainly the case with Edwards. 
We are at a loss to reconcile some passages in his treatise 
with the foregoing extract, e.g., the dictum necessitatis; 
also his declaration that the difference between natural and 



580 HISTORICAL SKETCH 



moral necessity "lies not so much in the nature of the 
connection as in the two terms connected." This is an un- 
fortunate admission for those who would shield him from 
the charge of fatalism. If the necessity, by wliich a voli- 
tion follows the given motive, is, after all, of the sarne 
nature \nth that by which a stone falls to the earth, or 
water freezes at a given temperature, it is all over with us 
as to any consistent, intelligible defence of the freedom of 
the will. 

If, moreover, the doctrine of Edwards leaves man full 
power, as he says above, to will and to choose as he pleasesy 
what becomes of the dictum, which makes it impossible for 
the mind to determine its own volitions ? 

Does not distinguish between the Affections and the WilL 
— It should be remembered that Edwards does not distin- 
guish between the will and affections. This distinction had 
not, at that time, been clearly drawn by writers on the 
philosophy of the mind. The twofold division of mental 
powers, into understanding and will, was then prevalent; 
the affections, of course, were classed with the. latter. 
Hence there is not that definiteness in the use of terms 
which modern psychology demands. Had Edwards distin- 
guished between the affections and the will, it must have 
given a different cast to his entire work. Even Locke, 
whose philosophy Edwards follows in the main, had distin- 
guished between will and desire, as we have already seen ; 
but in this he is not followed by Edwards, who, while he 
does not regard them as ** words of precisely the same sig- 
nification," yet does not think them "so entirely distinct 
that they can ever be said to run coutiter" 

Views of the later Necessitarians. — Of the views of the 
later advocates of necessity, Priestley, Belsham, Diderot, 
and others, of that school, we have already siK:)ken in a 
previous chapter. They carry out the scheme, with the 
greatest boldness and consistency, to its legitimate conse- 
i]uen('<'>:. fatalism, and the denial of free agency and ac- 



HISTORICAL SKETCH. 581 

countability. God is the real and only responsible doer of 
whatever comes to pass, and man the passive instrument 
in his hand. Eemorse, regret, repentance, are idle terms, 
and to praise or blame ourselves or others, for any thing 
that we or they have done, is merely absurd. 

Advocates of the Opposite. — On the other hand, the doc- 
trine of the freedom of the will has not wanted able advo- 
cates among the more recent philosophical writers. In gen- 
eral it may be remarked, that tliose who have treated of 
the powers of the human mind, as psychologists, have, for 
the most part, maintained the essential freedom of the will, 
while the advocates of the opposite view have been chiefly 
metaphysicians, rather than psychologists, and, in most 
cases, have viewed the matter from a theological rather 
than a philosophical point of view. Among the more recent 
and able advocates of the freedom of the will, are Cousin 
and Jouflroy, in France, Tappan and Bledsoe, in our own 
country. Previously, Mr. Stewart, in his appendix to his 
''Active and Moral Powers/' had concisely, but very ably, 
handled the matter, and earlier still, Kant, in Germany, had 
conceded the liberty of the will as a matter of consciousness, 
while unable to reconcile it with the dictates of reason. 

View of Hamilto;!. — Substantially the same view is taken 
by tlie late Sir William Hamilton, who, by general consent, 
stands at the head of modern philosophers, and who accepts 
the doctrine of liberty as d^fact^ an immediate dictum of con- 
sciousness, while, at the same time, he is unable to conceive 
of its possibility, since " to conceive a free act, is to conceive 
an act which, being a cause, is not, in itself, an effect ; in 
other v/ords, to conceive an absolute commencement ;" and 
this he regards as impossible. At the same time, it is equally 
beyond our power, he thinks, to conceive the possibility of 
the opposite, the doctrine of necessity, since that supposes 
"an infinite series of determined causes, ^^ which cannot be 
conceived. But though inconceivable, freedom is not the 
less a fact given by consciousness, and is to be placed in the 



582 HISTORICAL SKET( H. 

.same category with many other facts among the phenom- 
ena of mind, "which we must admit as actual, but of whose 
possibility we are wholly unable to form a notion." 

Remarks upon this View. — The difficulty here presented, 
— if I may venture a remark upon the opinions of so pro- 
found a thinker, and the same is true of Kant, — turns evi- 
dently on the peculiar idea of freedom entertained by those 
writers, namely, that in order to be free, an act of the will 
must be wholly undetermined, not itself an eftect, but an 
absolute commencement. Any influence, from any source, 
going to determine or incline a man to will as he does, ren- 
ders the act no longer free. Such freedom is certainly in- 
conceivable ; and what is more, impracticable ; it exists as 
little among the possibilities of the actual world, as among 
the possibilities of thought. We never act, except under 
the influence of motive and inclination ; and if acts thus 
performed are not free, then no acts that we perform are so. 

View of Coleridge. — This eminent disciple of the earlier 
German philosophy, derives from Kant the view of freedom 
now explained, and carries it to the furthest extreme. All 
influence and inclination are inconsistent with freedom. 
The disposition to do a thing renders the Avill, and the act 
of the will, no longer free. A nature, oi any kind, is in- 
consistent with freedom. This, of course, t^huts out all 
freedom from the actual world. Nor is it possible to con- 
ceive how even the acts of Deity can be any more free than 
ours, on this supposition ; nor how, if any such freedom as 
this were supposed to exist, an act thus performed, without 
any motive, or any disposition or inclination on the part 
of the agent, could be a rational or accountable act. 

Views of Cousin, and Jouffroy. — Cousin and Jouffroy, 
while by no means denying the influence of motive upon 
the mind, place the fact of liberty in the power which the 
mind has of being itself a cause, and of putting forth voli- 
tions from its own [)roper power. The law of inertia, con- 
tends Joutfroy, which requires a moving force pr»)p()rtioned 



HISTORICAL SKETCH. 583 

to the movement of a material body, docs not apply to the 
human mind, and "to apply this law to the relation which 
subsists between the resolutions of my will and the motives 
which act uj^on it, is to suppose that my being, that I my- 
self, am not a cause ; for a cause is something which pro- 
duces an act by its own proper power." Cousin, in like 
manner, places liberty in the absolute and undetermined 
power of the will to act as cause ; and " this cause, in order 
to produce its effect, has need of no other theatre, and no 
other instrument than itself. It produces it directly, with- 
out any thing intermediate, and without condition ; * * * 
being always able to do what it does not do, and able not 
to do what it does. Here, then, in all its plenitude, is the 
characteristic of liberty." 

View of Tappan. — One of the ablest defenders of the 
freedom of the will in our own country, Mr. Tappan, in his 
review of Edwards, takes essentially the position just ex- 
plained. All cause lies ultimately in the will. It is this 
which makes the nisus or effort that produces any event or 
phenomenon. Of this nisus the mind or will is itself the 
cause, and, as such, it is self-mouecL It makes its nisus of 
itself, and of itself it forbears to make it, and within the 
sphere of its activity, and in relation to its objects, it has 
the power of selecting, by a mere arbitrary act, any particu- 
lar object. It is a cause, all whose acts, as well as any par- 
ticular act, considered as phenomena demanding a cause, 
are accounted for in itself alone. 

Position of Bledsoe. — Similar is the position of Mr. Bled- 
soe, one of the most recent reviewers of Edwards, a writer 
of marked ability and candor. He denies, however, that 
volition is the effect of any thing, whether motive or mind, 
in the sense that motion of the arm is an effect. It is ac- 
tivity, action, the cause of action, but not eff'ect. In dis- 
tinction from most writers of the same theological views, 
he denies that the will is self deter mined, or that it is deter- 
mined at all, and by any thing. It is the determiner, but 
not the determ incd. 



REFERENCES. 

Among the authorities which have been consulted in the 
preparation of this work, the following may be referred to, 
with profit, by the reader who desires to pursue the subject 
further. 



I. THE INTELLECT. 

A.— ON THE INTELLECTUAL FACULTIES IN 
GENERAL 

Locke. — Essays on the Ilnman Understanding, 

Reid. — Essays on the Intellectual Powers. Walker Ed. 

" Works. — By Hamilton, with notes and dissertations. 
DuGALD Stewakt. — Philosophy of the Human Mind. Bowen Ed. 

" Philosophical Essays. 

Brown. — Lectures on the Philosophy of the Mind, 
The works of Upham, Wayland, Winslow, Mahan, may also be 
consulted, with profit. 
Cousin.— Cours de, 1828. Id. 1829. 

" Fragments Philosophiques. 

JouFFROT. — Melanges Philosophiques. Nouvelles Melanges. 

" Esquisses de D. Stewart. Preface. 

Descartes. — Meditations. Id , Discours de la Methode. 
Leibnitz. — Nouveaux Essais sur I'Entendement Humain. 
Malebranche. — Recherche de la Verite. 
Royer Collard. — CEuvres de Reid, Fragments. 
Damiron. — Cours de Philosophie. 
Hegel. — Encyklopiidie der Philosoph. Wissenschaft. 
Rosenkrantz. — Psychologie. 
Kant. — Anthropologie. Kritik der reinen Vernunft. 

*' Kritik der Urtheilskraft. 
Aristotle. — Metaphysics. 
On the Soul. 
Plato. — Republic. 
Cicero. — Tusculaiioe Quiesiione^. 



586 REFERENCES. 

B.— ON THE SPECIFIC FACULTIES. 

I. SENSATION AND PERCEPTION. 

Reid. — Intellectual Powers. 

Hamilton. — Supplementary Dissertation, Note D. 

O. W. Wight.— Philosophy of Sir W. Hamilton. Part II. 

Stewakt. — Philosophical Essays. Ess. II. 

Brown. — Philosophy of Human Mind. 

Mill. — Analysis of Human Mind. 

A. Smith. — Essays on Philosophical Subjects. Of the External 
Senses. 

Young. — Lectures on Intellectual Philosophy. 

Comte. — Philosophy Positive. 

MtJLLER. — Elements of Physiology. 

Tissot. — Anthropologie. 

Maine de Eiran. — Nouvelles Considerations sur les Kapports, etc. 

JOUFFKOY. — Nouvelles Melanges Philosophiques. 

BOYJ^R Collard. — Fragments in Jouflfroy's CEuvres de Reid. 

Tortual. — Die Sinne des Menschen. 

BUFFIER. — Traite des Premieres Veritts. 

Am^idee Jacques. — PsycLologie. Manuel de Phil, a I'usage des 
Coll. 

Dictionnaire des Sciences Piitlosopiiiques.— Art. Sens. 

Aristotle. — De Anima. Parva Naturalia. 

J. Earth. Saint Hilaire. — Psychologie de Aristotle. Notes and 
Preface. 

II. MEMORY. 

Stewart. — Intellectual Philosophy. 

Reid. — Intellectual Powers. (Walker.) 

Brown. — Philosophy of Human Mind. 

Mill. — Analysis of Human Mind. 

Abercrombie. — On Intellectual Powers. 

Hume. — Treatise on Human Nature. Book I. Part I. 

Aristotle. —Parva Naturalia. 

Bartiieleme Saint Hilaire. — Psychologie d'Aristotle. Part II. 

Malebranche. — Recherche de la Vrrite. Liv. II. 

RosKNKRANTZ. — Pnycliologic. 

Hegel. — Eucycl. Phil. VVis.suutich. Dritter Thcil. 



REFERENCES. 587 

III. IMAGI^MTION. 

Stewart. — Intellectual Philosophy. 

Beown. — Philosophy of Human Mind. 

Rauch.— Psychologie. Part II. 

Sydi^ey Smith. — Sketches of Philosophy. 

Mill. — Analysis of Human Mind. 

Amedee Jacques. — Manuel de Philosophic.— Psychol. V. 

RosENKRANTZ.— Psychologie. Die EinUldungskraft. 

Hegel. — Enc. derPhil.Wissensch. Drifter Theil. Die EinUldung. 

IV. ABSTRACTION AND GENERALIZATION. 

Reid. — Intellectual Powers. 

Brown. — Philosophy of Human Mind. 

Stewart. — Intellectual Philosophy. 

A. Smith. — Considerations on First Formation of Languages. 

J. S. Mill. — System of Logic. 

Whewell. — Philosophy of Inductive Sciences. 

James Mill. — ^Analysis of Human Mind. 

Thomson. — Laws of Thought. 

Cousin. — Elements of Psychology. (Henry.) 

Hume. — Treatise of Human Nature. Book I. Part I. 

V. REASONING. 

Hamilton. — Supplementary Dissertation, Note A. 
liEiD. — Intellectual Powers. 
Stewart. — Intellectual Philosophy. Part II. 
Locke. — On the Human Understanding. Book IV. 
Whewell. — Philosophy of Inductive Sciences. 
BuFFiER. — Premieres Vc'riti's. 
Brown. — Philosophy of Human Mind. 
Mill. — System of Logic. 

Hamilton. — Discussions on Philcsoi)hy. (Turubull Ed.) Article 
IV. Logic. Also Appendix II. A and B. 
Bayne. — New Analytic of Logical FoiTiis. 
Descartes. — Discours de la Methodo. 
CoNDiLLAC. — Alt de Penser. 

DiCTIONNATRE DES SCIENCES PhILOSOPHIQUES. LoglqUC. 

Pascal. — Peusccs — de I'Art de Persuader. 
PORT-RoYAL. — Logique. 
Aristoti.e. — Organon. 



588 REFERENCES. 

VI. INTUITIVE CONCEPTION. 

FIRST PRINCIPLES. 

Reid. — Intellectual Powers. Essay VI., cap. III. 

Hamilton. — Dissertation A. §§ 3, 4, 5. 

Stewart. — Intellectual Philosophy. Part II., cap. I. 

Coleridge. — Aids to Reflection. 

Mill. — System of Logic. Book II., caps. V. and VI. 

BuFFiER. — Premieres Verites. Part I., cap. VII. 

TIME, SPACE. 

COUSLN.— Cours de Philosophic. Tome II., Lemons XVII., XVIII. 

" Idem. Elements of Psychologie. Henry. Cap. III. 

Locke. — Essay on the Human Understanding. Book II., cap. XXVI. 
Stewart. — Philosophical Essays. Essay II. cap II. 
Reid. — Intellectual Powers. Essay III., cap. II. 
Mill. — Analysis of the Human Mind. Cap. XIV., § V. 
Royer Collard. — Fragments, IX., X. 

Kant. — Rritikderrein.Vernunft. Transcend. iEsthet. Part I., § II. 
Dictionnaire des Sciences Piiilosopiiiques. — Temps. Espace. 
Hegel. — Encyclop. Philosoph. Wissensch. Zweiter Theil. Erster 
Abschnitt. 

IDENTITY. 

Locke.— Essay, etc. Book II., cap. XXVII, 

Cousin, — Review of do. as above. Eh'ments Psychologie, cap. III. 

Reid. — Intellectual Powers. Essay III., cap. III. 

Mill. — Analysis, etc., cap. XIV., § VII. 

Whately. — Logic — Appendix. On Ambiguous Terms. 

Butler. — Dissertation on Identity. 

CAUSALITY. 

Mill. — System of Logic. Book III., cap. XXI. 
WHEWELii. — Philosophy of Inductive Sciences. Part I. Book III. 
Locke.— Essay. Book II., cap. XXVI. 
Tappan.— On the Will. Cap. II. Cause. 
BowEN. — Metaphysics and Ethics. 

Maine dk Biran. — Examen des Lecjons de Philosophie de 
Laromiguiere. 

Coi'RiN. — (Euvros de Maine Biran. Preface. 
" As above. El. Psychologic, cap. IV. 



1 



REFERENCES. 689 

THE BEAUTIFUL. 

Kames. — Elements of Criticism. 

Alison. — On Taste. 

McDermot.— On Taste. 

Stewart. — Philosophical Essays. Part II. 

Brown. — Philosophy of the Human Mind, Emotions of Beauty. 

JOUFFROY. — Cours d'Esthetique. 

Cousin. — Philosophy of the Beautiful, (Daniel, Trans.) 

Kant. — Kritik der Urtheilskraft. 

Hegel. — Cours d'Esthetique. (Benard, Tr.) 

THE RIGHT. 

Stewart. — Active and Moral Power.s. (Walker Ed.) 

Brown. — Philosophy of the Human Mind. Ethical Science. 

Butler. — Sennons. 

Paley. — Moral Philosophy. 

Adam Smith. — Theory of Moral Sentiments. 

Upham.— Mental Philosophy. Vol. II. 

WiNSLOW. — Elements of Moral Philosophy. 

Wayland. — Moral Philosophy. 

Whewell. — Elements of Morality. 

JouFFROY. — Introduction to Ethics. (Channing, Tr.) 

" Cours de Droit Natural. 

Emile Saisset.— Manuel de PhilosophiearusagedesCoU. Morale. 
Descartes. — Lettres. 
Cicero. — De Officiis. 
Aristotle.— Nicom. Eth. 
Plato. — Republic and Gorgias. 



II. THE SENSIBILITIE 

Stewart.— Active and Moral Powers. (Walker Ed.) 

Reid. — Faculties of the Human Mind. Essay III. 

Brown. — Philosophy of the Human Mind. Emotions. 

Upham.— Mental Philosophy. Vol. II. 

COGAN.— On the Passions, 

Descartes. — Les Passions de I'Ame. 

CONDiLLAC. — Traite des Sensations. 

Damiron. — Cours de Philosopliie. De le Sensibilite. 



590 REFERENCKS. 

JOUFFROY. — Melanges Philosophiques. De I' Amour de Soi, 
Aristotle.— On the Soul. Books II. and III. 



III. THE WILL. 

Edwards.— On the Will. 

Tappan.— Review of do. 

Day. — Review of do. 

Bledsoe. — Examination of do. 

I. Taylor. — Essay introductory to do. 

Tappan.— On the Will, and do. on Moral Agency. 

Mahan. — On the Will. 

Upham.— On the Will. 

Reid.— On the Faculties of the Human Soul. Essay IV. 

Belsham. — Philosophy of the Human Mind. 

Mill. — System of Logic. Book VI., cap. II. 

Mill. — Analysis of the Human Mind. Cap. XXIV. 

Cogan.— Ethical Questions. Question IV. 

Stewart. — Active and Moral Powers. Cap. VI. 

Reid. — Essays on Active Powers. Essay II, 

Locke. — On the Human Understanding. Book II., cap. XXI. 

Hamilton.— Philosophy of the Conditioned, cap. II., ^1. (O. W. 
Wight.) 

JouFFROY. — Introduction to Ethics, § IV. 

Leibnitz.— Essays de Theodicee. 

Cousin. — Fragments Philosophiques. Preface. 

Am:6der Jacques. — Manuel de Phil. Psychologie. Volonte. 
XV.— XVIL • 

Maine de Biran.— (Euvres. Vol. IV. 

" Controversy with Clarke. 

Cousin. — Psychologie. (Henry, Tr.) Ca]). X. 

Damiron. — Psychologie. Liv. I., § II., cap. III. 

Emilk Saisset. Dictionnaire des Sciences Philosophiques. Art. 
Liljerte. 



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